Flesh Wounds

by Richard Glover

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Please start here

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Richard Glover

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  ‘Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not; a sense of humour to console him for what he is.’

  Sir Francis Bacon

  Dedication

  For Dan and Joe

  My father and mother on their wedding day, Lancashire, 1946.

  Please start here

  According to my mother, I was the first artificial insemination baby in Australia. The claim is not as unlikely as it sounds; the dates work out. She wasn’t talking about IVF or test tubes, just about sperm and a turkey-baster. Old-style. So her story makes some sense. It was her reason for needing help that was strange. She and my father were having trouble conceiving, which is not surprising when you consider she’d never slept with him. Not once. They’d been married twelve years and still the marriage was unconsummated. And even in 1958, it was hard to get pregnant without having sex.

  They were living in Papua New Guinea where medical facilities were scarce, so they came down to Sydney to see an infertility specialist. My father gave his sperm and my mother submitted to the procedure. And, according to my mother, it worked. She was both pregnant and a virgin. So, at this point, you may wish to call me Jesus.

  My father had a different story, but only slightly different. Yes, my mother refused to sleep with him, and yes, they’d booked into an Australian hospital to see if artificial insemination could be the answer. In my father’s version, though, the procedure didn’t work. They went back to New Guinea and she was forced to finally have sex with him, just the once, in order to have me. I don’t know which story is right. Either way, I find it hard to think of myself as a love child.

  A few years later, we moved from Papua New Guinea – first to Sydney and then to Canberra. In all that time I never felt like the favourite, which is hard when you are an only child. My mother was distant, both from me and my father. She would tell anyone who listened about the unusual circumstances of my birth, as if it made the two of us a little bit posh: a child produced without recourse to rutting. Her tone was the one you’d use when your child has won a competition.

  Some years on, having finished school, I travelled overseas, hoping to meet my English grandparents. By then my parents had split up – my mother moving to a country town far away. I rang her to request contact details for her side of the family. There was a disapproving sigh on her end of the phone. She wasn’t in a position to put me in contact with her family. Frankly, she refused. When I asked her why, she told me a story I’d heard growing up, without ever really taking it in. It described the cause of all that followed: her hasty but loveless marriage to my father, their escape to New Guinea, and the way I’d never had any contact with my maternal grandparents.

  As she explained it, she was a child from an upper-class family. Her father had always been busy with affairs of state, working with Sir Winston Churchill both before and during the war. And she – like me – had been an only child. Not properly loved, not properly wanted, and sent away to boarding school at just seven years of age. She understood, to some extent, the actions of her parents. They were from that class of people for whom boarding school was customary. But part of her could never forgive, could never forget. It was in her rush to escape the elite boarding school that she had met my father, in his smart World War II naval uniform, and then onwards to what she saw as a disastrous marriage. She didn’t want me fraternising with the people who had caused all this misery.

  Fair enough. So, I went to England, nineteen years old, armed with the name of my father’s sister: Auntie Audrey, a school teacher in Bristol. I met her daughters, my three cousins, the first relatives I’d ever encountered. After a few days, my aunt asked whether I was planning a trip to see my mother’s family, and I said, ‘No, Auntie,’ before rapidly repeating the tragic tale: my mother’s neglectful upper-class family, the posh boarding school, handsome navy captain, loveless marriage, turkey-baster, sperm, me.

  ‘So, Auntie, as you can see, it’s not really possible for me to go and see them.’

  Through all this a smile was forming on my aunt’s face.

  ‘A posh boarding school, you say?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie.’

  ‘Father worked with Sir Winston?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie.’

  ‘Would you like to see a picture of your grandparents? And your mother’s sisters?’

  Sisters? I thought to myself. There were no sisters. She was an only child.

  All I said, however, was, ‘Yes, I’d love to see the pictures.’

  My aunt went upstairs. I could hear her rummaging around in her bedroom, opening drawers and cupboards. She came down holding a tiny black-and-white photograph. ‘Here’s a photo of your mother’s family,’ she said, handing it over.

  I stared at the small image, transfixed but confused. There were five people in the photo – my mother, her two sisters and their parents. I could recognise my mother. And the others looked like her: they were clearly a family. They were also clearly northern working-class. Actually, they were northern working class as rendered by Monty Python. The father virtually had a hanky on his head.

  ‘They look lovely,’ I said.

  ‘They were lovely,’ replied my aunt. ‘Your mother was ashamed of them. She wanted to be something better. She didn’t even invite them to the wedding. They came anyway and stood outside in the rain, throwing confetti.’

  My mother, my aunt explained, grew up in a cramped two-up, two-down terrace house in Lancashire, left school at fourteen and was working as a hairdresser’s apprentice when she met my father, who was only a smidge further up the social hierarchy. Her dad – my grandfather – had laboured in a cotton mill; her sisters ran a boarding house. The stories about working for Sir Winston, life in the boarding school, the posh accent, even her status as an only child: all of it was invention.

  I know the obvious thing to say is that this left me gutted. That I sat there sobbing, reflecting on the fact that all my life I’d been fed a lie. Or that, in response to this revelation, I reassessed my relationship to social class, deciding to celebrate my true proletarian British background by henceforth dressing in a cloth cap and shoving a ferret down my trousers.

  The reality was that I hardly noticed what my aunt was saying. At nineteen, on my first trip outside Australia, I didn’t really care about the social standing of my mother’s parents, nor whether my mother was a poshie or a non-poshie. It all seemed rather arcane, nowhere near as interesting as the fact that my cousins were about to take me horse-riding at a farm down the road.

  This lack of interest will sound weird, I know, to anyone who comes from a vaguely functional family. How can you not care about your parents and their antecedents? Maybe there’ll be others, though, who’ll think it sounds normal. Caring about your parents can hinge on whether they cared about you. My mother, in all the important ways, had disappeared from my life by the time I was fifteen, and even in the years she was present had been disconnected, self-int
erested, otherwise engaged. I’d always considered myself self-raising, like flour.

  It was only years later that other questions began to press themselves forward. Can you really be self-raising, like flour? Or is that just a glib way to pretend that bad parenting doesn’t hurt? Is it possible to be a good parent yourself if your own parents were not what you ordered? And is the personality of the ill-parented person, both the good parts and the bad, really nothing but scar tissue, grown around this elemental hurt?

  My attitude at nineteen – ‘I’m just not that interested’ – may have been healthy, in a self-protective, let’s-get-on-with-things way, but it was an attitude that became difficult to maintain as the years went by. And so, more than three decades on, I decided to discover where I came from.

  Chapter One

  This is where my memory starts: me as a self-sufficient child, distant from my parents. It was the early 1960s; my parents had just returned to Australia from New Guinea, where they’d spent twelve years helping establish a daily newspaper, the South Pacific Post. Both had good jobs in Sydney. My father, Ted, worked for a local publishing company and then later for the Reader’s Digest. He was handsome, with jet-black hair swept into place with Brylcreem, rather like the Don Draper character in Mad Men. My mother, who called herself Bunty, worked as an arts publicist, mainly for The Australian Opera and The Australian Ballet. She was blonde, vivacious and would dress stylishly in bright designer clothes. My mother and father didn’t really behave like parents to me or as partners to each other. It was more a case of two self-involved individuals who happened to rent a room to a boarder of mystifyingly modest height.

  They – or rather we – lived in a two-storey house of normal size, with a circular drive squeezed into the front yard as a nod to feudal grandeur. It had a pool out the back and a long, bright sunroom for entertaining. The sunroom had a bar at one end, decorated to an Hawaiian theme. A pair of over-sized salad servers, embellished with frangipanis, was mounted on the wall behind the bar, presumably to celebrate Hawaii’s famous love of salad. A glass bowl held packets of motel matches – ‘Stay at the Sea-Breeze on Queensland’s Gold Coast’ – and there were several large lighters, embedded in lumps of marble, which I’d occasionally be required to carry around, igniting the cigarettes of guests. In this household, there’d be no problems if a visitor craved either a drink or a smoke.

  My parents worked hard and enjoyed a busy social life. They’d arrive home just before dinner and then, quite often, would head to a party or the theatre, clambering their way up the social ladder, leaving me with a teenage babysitter. Or they’d host elaborate dinner parties – a clatter of music and conversation floating up the stairs towards my bedroom.

  At such events, my mother spoke loudly in a posh, strangulated accent. She sounded like the Queen Mum – if the Queen Mum had been required to instruct a group of slightly deaf workmen standing on the other side of a noisy road. It wasn’t only the manner of speaking, it was the words themselves – words, I now realise, which were chosen to prove her aristocratic standing. It was never a ‘toilet’ but always a ‘lavatory’. ‘I’m just off to the lavatory,’ she’d announce at high volume, almost constantly, to whole roomfuls of people, so frequently that her guests must have worried about the state of her bladder. In the same spirit, it was ‘napkin’, not ‘serviette’; ‘sofa’, not ‘couch’; ‘pudding’, not ‘sweet’; ‘spectacles’, not ‘glasses’; and ‘drawing room’, not ‘lounge’. My childhood was a blizzard of these terms, my mother never more pleased than when she could work several into a single sentence:

  ‘Let’s head into the drawing room for some pudding, if you’re all sure you don’t need the lavatory.’

  ‘Leave your napkin behind; you won’t need it once you’re sitting on the sofa in the drawing room.’

  ‘The lavatory is just through there, past the sofa; you’ll see the way through your spectacles.’

  When I read autobiographies I’m amazed by people’s ability to recall their early childhood. The film star Diane Cilento, for example, wrote about the music teacher she had when she was eight or nine years old, and remembered everything – the teacher’s name, personality, even the state of her teeth. ‘Theodora Benson was a dark-haired melancholic with chipped teeth and moles all over her face.’ Was Diane just making this up? Do most people retain this stuff? I try to recall my own piano teacher but can’t get a picture to form, either in terms of the moles or the name. I can certainly remember the long bicycle ride to the teacher’s house and the steep upwards slope just before I got there. I remember the rush of pleasure as I whooshed back down the hill at the end of the lesson. I also recall the music teacher’s house, double-fronted, with a long corridor to the back room, where the piano stood. And the musty cabbagey smell of the place. And the boredom. Other than that, nothing. I can’t even recall the gender of the teacher, never mind supply a detailed dental report.

  When I think of my childhood it’s like a broken wine bottle smashed on the floor. The memories are shards of glass, all messed up. It’s impossible to know what fits where.

  • A teenager comes over with his parents and sings all eighteen minutes of ‘Alice’s Restaurant’, while strumming along on his guitar. I’m about nine or ten and I’m very impressed.

  • Cicadas. Collecting them. From a tree over the road.

  • A dead dog lies on the roadside. It’s been hit by a car and left there, its eye hanging out.

  • Me beating an upholstered pool chair with a stick, bored in the late afternoon after school, pretending I am ‘teacher’ and caning the pupils.

  • Cycling to the home of a boy my mother wanted me to like, but I had my doubts about. He had a weird big head.

  • My parents hosting a party at home and me being told to stand and read a short story for the group. It was The Loaded Dog by Henry Lawson. Mortifying.

  • A bet with a boy at school called Robert Evans. ‘I’ll never like girls,’ he says. ‘Well,’ I reply, ‘I agree that girls are yuck, but we’ll both change our minds. All grown-ups are married. I bet you fifty cents that one day you will be too.’ (I have the urge, all these years on, to try and collect.)

  • My mother whacking me on the legs with her shoe, which had jewels on it.

  • Cycling down to the creek that ran through some scrub not far from home. A hazy memory of other children and a raft and some 44-gallon drums. I remember the smooth surface of the very steep road – white concrete when most roads were tarmac.

  Is this what most people’s memories are like? Do we all miss the important bits – who were these kids with the raft? – while having really sharp recall of the colour of the road surface upon which we pedalled?

  My parents might seem eccentric but at least some of their oddities were in keeping with the time. Parents in the 1960s were often quite uninvolved in their children’s lives. Most didn’t attend weekend sporting fixtures in the way that’s common today. Back then, children would cycle to the ground, play a round of football or cricket, and then cycle home. Most primary-school children would travel solo to school and head home again at the end of the day. And the whole project of engaging with your children – praising them and cheering them on – was not even considered. Worse, the merest flicker of praise was condemned as something that might produce a child ‘with tickets on himself’ or ‘too big for his boots’.

  Five decades on, parents are criticised for being too upbeat about their children’s achievements – the ‘culture of unearned praise’, it’s now called – yet the earlier generation of parents took it to the opposite extreme. The parents of the 1960s and 1970s acted as if it would kill them to say something positive.

  In most households, you’d have had variations on this discussion:

  ‘Hey, Mum, good news – I scored 99 out of 100 in the French test.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame. You’d better work on the word you messed up.’

  ‘I also got 99 out of 100 for mathematics.’

>   ‘That’s why you should have studied harder the night before. And don’t use the word “got”; “received” is better.’

  ‘Well, Mum – what about this? I received 100 out of 100 in history.’

  ‘Don’t brag, darling. It’s not nice.’

  It’s true that optimism and modesty are fine qualities. But could it be that the parents of the first chunk of the twentieth century rather overdid things?

  I imagine Einstein emerging from his bedroom: ‘Mother, good news, I have just unified space and time in one theory. I’m calling it my Special Theory of Relativity.’

  ‘Albert, Albert, don’t be a show-off. No one likes a bragger. If the theory is so special, you should let other people say so.’

  Or Sir Edmund Hillary, back from Everest:

  ‘I made it, Dad.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, son, but it’s no reason to tramp snow into the living room.’

  At the beginning of 1971, when I was twelve, we moved to Canberra. Or, to be more accurate, it was decided that I should move to Canberra. My parents had purchased a newsagency in the centre of town and had to wait a few months before taking possession. It was arranged that I should be sent ahead, like a tiny emissary, so I could start at my new school. For the first part of the year, I was to live with an old newspaper friend of my father’s. This fill-in father was Stanley Hutchinson, the chief Canberra correspondent for the Fairfax newspaper group. With his wife, Bette, he lived in a huge company-owned house opposite my new school.

  I have sunny memories of their place: wandering in an overgrown garden that seemed more like a farm than a suburban plot. I slept in a room vacated by one of their grown-up boys and was astonished by my sudden exposure to ordinary, loving, family life. No regular nights with babysitters. No being sent upstairs to bed with the babble of a party below. No glamour-struck mother wearing designer clothes. The Hutchinsons had a dog, a labrador called Honey, who would lie at my feet, her tail languidly wagging. There was a warm kitchen and a lived-in, tatty feel to the rooms. You can see why I found it enormously strange.