by Larry Writer
She saw the car and it is no great leap to figure that from the car to the broken down building behind it he was there from some slick government department, some place not of her world, to fix what can’t be fixed. ‘Are you going to start fixing the balconies?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘Aren’t you from the Council or the Department of Housing or something?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I used to live here.’
It interested her. They got to talking and he told her he used to live on the third floor.
‘I live on the third floor,’ she said. [It was the very flat where we used to live.] ‘You want to come up and take a look?’
James spent the afternoon in his former home sharing coffee and stories.
It was smaller than he remembered. There was the bedroom he and his brother and sister shared. There was the bedroom where his mother slept – on a good night on her own.
‘It was a place of so much joy and pain,’ he says. ‘More pain than joy.’
No matter where we are or no matter where we drive, we come from somewhere. We never leave it behind.
There is something of this two-bedroom Camperdown Housing Commission flat inside Dack, one of Sydney’s leading real estate agents.
For 19 years he has been McGrath’s No.1 salesman. He has the record price in four Sydney suburbs. He sells more than $100 million of real estate a year.
That is just detail. A quick check of the classifieds shows that, nowadays, his car is worth about the same as the average small house, nothing like the houses Dack specialises in. More details.
When John McGrath started the company in his father’s back room, Dack was right beside him. Side by side, hour for hour, but even that is not half of it.
McGrath is received as a wonder kid in the business world. A rational comparison makes it certain that Dack must be the most under-appreciated real estate brain in the city’s No.1 industry. ‘For the past five years the company has been going good,’ says McGrath’s general manager of sales, Matt Lahood, ‘and a lot of that is because of James’s ethos and the way he brings teams together. He’s the unofficial 2IC without having the brief. He’s just got a sixth sense for when things are on and when they’re off.’
If hard work is not considered a trick, then no tricks explain Dack’s success. ‘It’s just coming from a position of understanding,’ he says. ‘Understanding where you can almost get tossed out of your house at any time or moved into other housing.’
For the past eight years, Dack has been patron of the City of Sydney Police Citizens Youth Club at Woolloomooloo. The club was crumbling and Dack and a dedicated few rescued it. He received the PCYC’s Life Governor Award. He donates money and helps raise it for Randwick’s Royal Hospital for Women, breast cancer research, the Starlight Foundation, Vision Australia and juvenile diabetes. For Friends of the Family, the Children’s Medical Institute, Youth Off The Streets and even the RSPCA.
‘I know he often gives people at work five thousand here and there, because they’ve told me, just to help them out,’ Lahood says. ‘A lot of the time he doesn’t get it back.’
Dack’s mother, Florence, died in 1982. He was 21 and younger brother Stephen and sister Alison were at high school. His father long gone, Dack took over, working to keep his family in school.
It is in this context, his life assembled, pulled apart and put together again, that it begins to make sense. ‘You lament the fact that you’ve done so well and you can’t show your mother any of it,’ he says. ‘Can’t give her anything in terms of what she deserves. Having a couple of kids now, and realising how difficult it is with a great wife and good support … she did it all on her own. It must have been agonisingly difficult for her, and I can’t give anything back.’
He believes the stress of raising three children with limited resources, an alcoholic husband who was there little, and was abusive when he was, brought on the cancer that killed her.
It is as good an answer as any that he can find as to why he turned his car towards his old home last year.
The ’Loo is still a tough old place, for all its piecemeal gentrification and expensive restaurants. There is still crime and drunkenness and drugs. When we were children we’d step over the bodies of homeless people on the footpaths and in the parks. They still sit huddled with their blankets and shopping trolleys. One homeless man died on the street only the other day. I’ve grown up now and moved on and away, and the Italian women no longer sit in the sunshine repairing the nets of their fishermen husbands and sons and grandfathers, yet I can still walk along the Finger Wharf and around to the Domain and get a thrill. I’m still at home in the ’Loo. When I see a bloke with no teeth and tattoos and a mullet rolling drunk and looking mean, I don’t cross to the other side of the street. I give him a smile and say, ‘G’day.’ Sometimes we are too quick to judge. Truth is, if you went back twenty-five years, that guy was most likely a sweet kid suffering poverty, violence or some other kind of abuse. It would have been extraordinary if he’d turned out any other way. Parents can make or break us.
I look around me, remember when, and say, ‘I love this joint.’
Many people who live there are still the salt of the earth.
I still have plenty to do with the kids of Woolloomooloo, and just this week I’m taking a bunch of them out for a bite to eat. In many ways they’re like we used to be, but in other ways they’re different. Some are bordering on the uncontrollable and getting into serious trouble with the law. They’re hurting, crying out for help and need someone to give them a hug or put a strong hand on their shoulder as adults in our day did with us. I blame drugs as much as anything else for the trouble they find themselves in and their lack of respect for others and for themselves.
There was a teenager from down there, a hard case, skinny and with rotting teeth from heroin, whom I gave a job to at McGrath’s. I could see he was in danger of getting out of control and I wanted to show him a different side of life in which he could work and earn money and gain some self-respect. Soon after he started he came to work and his arm was a mess, all cut and scraped. I asked him what had happened and he blithely reported that the night before he and a mate had stolen a Porsche from a garage and were driving it when the police saw them and gave chase. This kid, who was in the passenger seat, jumped out of the car while his friend was hooning it around a corner, and suffered the injuries to his arm. He didn’t last in the job much longer.
This lad’s little brother was eleven, and one day I saw him outside the PCYC and he was all enthusiastic and wanting me to give him a job selling real estate like I had done for his brother. I said I’d be glad to and that we’d talk later in the week at the club. I didn’t see him again for three years, and when I did, like his sibling, he was thin, had blank, dead eyes, rotting teeth and his complexion was yellow. He, too, had discovered heroin. I went up to him and asked him how he was doing and whether he was still interested in the job but, like he was a zombie, he stared vacantly, mumbled something I couldn’t make out and shuffled away down the lane. It was a tragic scene. I’ll keep doing what I can for the youngsters of the ’Loo. If one out of ten goes on to turn their life around, like my friend and colleague Stephen Henderson at work, then that’ll do me.
Am I religious? I have a strong leaning towards religion, because there have been so many strange and inexplicable things happen in my life that there has to be something out there, not that I understand what it is. All I know is that if your religion helps you get through life, it has to be a good thing. Personally I feel that if you help others, are a good citizen, do the best you can and don’t expect anything in return, eventually things will go well for you. My religion is being optimistic and trying to do right by others and myself.
People say to me, ‘Surely you’ve made enough money to retire.’ I could retire, but I have no intention of calling it quits. I like the challenge of selling property. It’s like a job interview every time you
front up to a client.
I’ll remain in real estate as long as I love it and can’t wait to get out of bed each morning to face the new day’s challenges. Currently the market is weak as a result of the world financial crisis and other factors, yet, as it always has, it will come roaring back. Think about it. Sydney is one of the most beautiful, and liveable, cities on Earth. I think, too, that even in the age of the internet, there will always be a need for good real estate sales people. Just as the owner of a champion racehorse spares no expense to make sure the best jockey is riding that horse to maximise his investment, so someone who has a beautiful house to sell wants to get the best possible price, and that’s where a top-flight agent comes in.
I’m glad I had the balls to leave a secure job with the Department of Health and get into real estate in the first place. For a kid like me from an insecure background, that took some doing. And I’m proud of what I’ve put into McGrath’s. I’ve been running this place with John for many years now, and have helped grow the company from nothing to the multi-million-dollar enterprise working out of fifteen offices that it is today. I stamped myself all over this place and I hope I have helped to give real estate selling a good name. We’ve put roofs over people’s heads and sold property for a good price. I’ve helped young people build businesses and it’s nice to think that my own success has inspired them.
I have also been fortunate enough to have the chance to help friends in need. Friends are very important to me, and if I can help them out of a jam I will. Just recently I have used the negotiating skills I’ve honed over thousands of real estate deals to offer solutions to mates.
When Luke Ricketson, the fine Sydney Roosters forward who also starred for New South Wales and Australia, was at the end of his long career trying to sort out his final-year contract at the Roosters, I felt he wasn’t getting either the money or respect he deserved for being a loyal and influential Rooster for more than a decade. I’d advised Luke and his father Doug, who also played for the Roosters, on real estate in the past. I met with Ricko’s coach and manager and we were able to work out a fairer payment. I did that because Ricko is a good mate and he deserved the better deal, but I also love the Roosters, they’re my club, and I didn’t want to see their name tarnished because of the way they were treating Luke. Men like Ricko are vital in a sporting organisation, or any organisation. He’s a man who because of his talent, strong character, dedication and his contribution to team harmony was a vital cog. When such players leave, they are hard to replace. In quick succession over the past few seasons, the Roosters have lost Ricko and others like him due to salary cap restrictions and poor judgement ... and look at what happened to the Roosters in 2009; it was a disastrous year when a number of players disgraced themselves off the field, and the team finished dead last. I worry what will happen when Craig Fitzgibbon, who has just retired, is not around. Hopefully things will be rectified as a new coach and players join the club.
Anthony Bell, another friend, wanted to buy his father Donald’s accountancy business. It was the right time. Donald was nearing semi-retirement age and it was clear that the business needed younger blood, someone with an appreciation of the new technology to capitalise on Donald’s lifetime of hard work. Anthony fit the bill. But they couldn’t agree on a price, because Donald kept making a commitment to his son and then getting cold feet about letting go. I got them together, turned on a tape recorder so Donald couldn’t change his mind again, and they were able to reach consensus. Today Anthony has taken the business to a new level of success and Donald is an integral member of the management team.
Johnny Lewis is a very important person in my life. When he and former world champion boxer Kostya Tszyu were involved in a financial dispute, I got them together and we talked it through, put the issue in perspective, and resolved the problem. It took three months of talks, but in the end both men were happy, which was a great result because each holds the other in the highest regard.
I’m trying to make up for lost time. I’m here, I’m healthy, I have all my faculties. I’m not afraid to love and I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m never happier than when I’m with my family or good friends, at home, in a café or at the rugby league. Mary and I travel, and although we don’t often dine in restaurants I have realised my old dream of being able to go to a fine restaurant and afford anything on the menu.
I have hopes and dreams for myself and my family. I feel great, but it’s always lurking around in my mind that I’m not going to live forever. So let’s get it on.
I think every day of my mother. I try to live my life as she lived hers.
Just as she read bedtime stories to me, I read to Emily and Riley at night before they slip away to dreamland. They prefer The Gruffalo to Snugglepot and Cuddlepie. Our reading session was interrupted the other night when Riley’s scream rang out. ‘Daddy, a cockroach! You’re big and strong. KILL HIM!’ Now, being a boy from Woolloomooloo, killing cockroaches is something I know a lot about.
I regret that I was never able to spoil my mother like she deserved to be spoiled. If she could see me today, I’m not sure what she’d think. I hope she’d be proud. I’ll always have this sadness: that Mum never had a life, that she was never validated as a human being. So here, in these pages, I say, ‘I love you Mum, and thank you for all you did for me.’
[ALISON]
the little sister remembers
I was the little sister ... and James and Stevie were the best big brothers a girl could have. As I write this, in spite of everything that has happened in our lives, I think of them and I smile.
That says it all.
The love my brothers and I and our mother shared growing up, before the rot set in, and the wonderful things we did together as kids in Woolloomooloo sustain me to this day.
Memories.
James being father, mother, brother and protector to me and Steve when Mum was dying of cancer and our dad had disappeared again or turned up at the doorstep drunk. James using me instead of a barbell to build up his muscles for footy; he would pick me up by the neck and ankle and lift me high above his head again and again. James? How to describe him? Determined, focused, strong-willed, successful ... and a marshmallow inside.
Stephen is sensitive and spiritual and humble at the same time as being the tough fighter and criminal lawyer. As a boy he was naughty and adventurous, a playful kitten of a kid who was always playing tricks on us. James and Steve could sing. They performed for Mum and me acapella renditions of hymns and folk songs like ‘Kumbaya’. Not content with just singing, Steve sometimes made trumpet noises by blowing out through his lipsand when he started working out he could flex his pecs to the beat of the song. which was often ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ to annoy Roosters fan James. He could recite poetry, pages and pages of it committed to memory. He once taped a Winston Churchill speech, learned it, and delivered it word for word – and inflection – perfect. Mum was so pround of him, as she was all of us. She called us her cherubs.
Stephen and I, like all siblings, used to get stuck into each other. Then he wasn’t so much a kitten as a wildcat. I always say he took up boxing so he could stand a chance against me. I know why he, in years later, he was called Sunshine: because right from when he was a little boy he would give me a hug or tell me a joke and his wonderful spirit would be like a shaft of bright sunlight piercing the clouds on a rainy day.
When I remember Stephen, I am a little girl again and I am hearing the phone ringing, and Mum picks it up and I overhear how Stevie has fallen off a wall, been run over by a car when he was riding his billycart on busy Parramatta Road, gotten into a fight and broken his nose or wrist or crashed his bike. Or that James has gotten third-degree burns by sunbaking too long at the beach, as he was some day or got into some other strife.
When Steve was little, he smashed his bicycle, and Mum saved to have it repaired. We all travelled from Camperdown to the bike shop at Newtown to pick it up. Stevie asked Mum if he could ride it home. He w
as about twelve. Mum reluctantly gave in to him. She and I were sitting on the bus on our way home when an ambulance sped by in the opposite direction with its siren blaring. Mum, being the kind and caring person that she was, said to me, ‘Oh dear, some poor family is going to be hearing some bad news tonight.’ When we arrived home a policeman was standing at our door. Yes, the ambulance we’d seen was rushing to collect Steve and take him to hospital. He’d come off his new bike.
Mum was a lady – a lady of integrity, kindness and strength, who stood up to some terrible problems with bravery and a smile. She was the glue in our family and although we were poor and had an absent father she worked hard in spite of her illness to ensure that we wanted for nothing and grew up to be good people. She was strict. One night when she had to give James a ticking-off she climbed up on a chair to be level-pegging with him and the chair started to creak and wobble and we all started giggling.
When Mum was dying of cancer and in terrible pain she had no support. There was no community nurse. She had twenty-eight courses of chemotherapy.
She was so sick at the end. She nearly died many times, but her need to care for us kept her fighting her cancer longer than she had any right to. I remember her lying in her hospital bed saying to me, ‘Now, Ali, do you have your school uniform for tomorrow ... your pocket money?’
Mum determinedly took us on outings. I can close my eyes and see us all, Mum, James, Stephen and me, at Bronte pool. I’m a sickly, thin kid clinging to James’s back and holding my breath for dear life and he’s being a dolphin and diving deep down under the water. Steve has climbed to the top of the rocks overlooking the pool and is about to jump 3 metres into shallow water. Mum is yelling at him, ‘STEPHEN, GET DOWN OFF THAT ROCK! RIGHT NOW!’
The rot that I was referring to earlier set in when Mum’s illness and subsequent death meant that I had to live with relatives and friends for extended periods. It was then when, from the age of ten until I was fourteen, I was sexually and violently abused by a number of people. I suffered this abuse in silence, because one of the people who was abusing me threatened my life, and told me that I’d better not tell my mother on him because she was sick and the trauma would kill her. I did not want Mum to die so I said nothing. Nor did I tell James and Stephen because I feared that my attacker would make good on his threat to kill them too. I had seen his guns
