Girl on the Edge

by Kim Hodges

  *

  While I was at university, in the background, still something was always there. The scar in the centre of my neck continually reminded me of the big ordeal. It was visible to me, but hidden by a necklace from the rest of the world. I had tried to forget about it and bury it forever, but it niggled away. Tucked away deep within my subconscious, a suppressed memory, it was bubbling away below the surface. If I was asked about the scar on my neck, I would answer factually, “I had an operation on my thyroid. It was hyperactive.” I never told anyone about the big ordeal. The idea of telling someone was painful enough in itself, so I buried it deeper and deeper.

  chapter twenty-five

  VISITS BACK HOME

  Throughout my university years, and the rest of my twenties, I phoned home once a week out of loyalty. I allowed the gossip to flow over me, as my mother talked about Coolah, because peoples’ life journeys fascinated me. With the telephone earpiece resting on my shoulder, after some small talk, I waited for her to inquire about my new life. She never did. She didn’t ask about my university studies, my part-time jobs, or later on, my career, love interests, or travel plans. I also, deliberately, did not let her in. If, by some chance, we crossed over into discussing my life, the things that interested me were of no interest to her, so she swiftly changed the subject back to life in Coolah. As she relayed various details to me, she assumed that I was interested: my “Yes,” “I see,” and “Yep,” on the other end of the telephone encouraged her to continue. I had little interest in that drivel. I felt obliged to keep the Coolah information flowing, in order to maintain some sort of mother-daughter relationship. Tales of townie relationships, marriages, affairs, pregnancies, local jobs, living arrangements, social events and unruly behaviour all reached my ears. I worried that if I didn’t listen to the gossip, the void between us would become so large that no words could ever fill it. She talked of home to shore up that bond with her daughter and she probably assumed that I was genuinely interested. Also, I confess that sharing my experiences with her was unappealing, as this was my new life, my own life, without Coolah and my mother.

  Over that period, I usually visited Coolah about three times a year. I would catch a train to Mudgee and be picked up there by my father. My yearning for family and the country setting of Coolah stayed. I politely listened to the chatter around the dining room table between my mother and her friends. I didn’t contribute much—a few nods and the occasional question. I always asked after the twins and Anthony, or saw them if they were home for a weekend too. My mother’s gossip about Coolah folk never mentioned the Knox or the Simmons family; they were families that had left town. I made my own enquires on one visit to Coolah. I was told the whereabouts of either family was unknown. They simply disappeared, apparently. The fringe dwellers of the townie community had disappeared into oblivion; their wellbeing was of no interest and not worth worrying about, as the far as the rest of Coolah was concerned. This was in contrast to other families, who had relocated to another township and yet still maintained links with people in Coolah. The Knox and Simmons families were without such links. I thought about how the stigma attached to the Far West label had stuck. It defined and confined them. Deliberately used by the townies, calculated, but without much malice. Labelling these two families had been intended just to isolate and alienate them from the townie community. I did also question whether the Knox family had kept to themselves by choice. I don’t know. I do know that the Far West label made things harder.

  *

  I was still in touch with my twin friends. Both of them had held onto their Catholic identity and beliefs and passed them onto their own children. In their homes God was a certainty. As adults, their religion wasn’t just a spiritual belief, but provided an internal moral compass and a way to be personally centred. The twins had a sense of social justice and they weren’t judgemental about the choices that other people made. They never took issue with my non-belief in God. I liked those qualities in people, whether they believed in the existence of a God or not. For myself I always recalled the dichotomies that Catholicism was constructed from, as it was taught to us at school, and I realised it wasn’t for me.

  *

  On one of my visits back home, my mother and her friend mentioned Kathy Waite. I learnt that Kathy had had two children with her partner Paddy Mathers but they weren’t married. They lived on a farm an hour and a half from Coolah, which was closer to a larger township. Kathy was often seen grocery shopping. Her black eyes and bruised face did not go unnoticed. Paddy regularly returned to Coolah, to attend the Catholic Church, and to visit his relatives. They were all religious, but he was the only family member with a taste for too much alcohol. Apparently, Paddy’s anger would erupt after a belly full of alcohol and he would lash out—beating, punching and hitting Kathy. Paddy would attend church and seek confession, and God’s forgiveness, to clear his conscience. He would walk out of church kinder, more considerate and promise to start over. Unfortunately the only thing that Paddy ever did start over again was the cycle of abuse, and Kathy was trapped in that violent cycle. Sometimes the cycle was very short. My mother’s circle told me that the non-church going townies laughed behind Paddy’s back because he would attend confession, getting clearance from God and then enjoy a few beers at the Top Pub before returning home to Kathy and their children. They laughed, but they didn’t intervene or confront Paddy.

  Had Kathy somehow ended up being stuck on a farm, out of town, with two young children and an abusive partner, because of her pocket money sex romps? I wondered. Kathy had children with an abuser and I felt sad for her. Poor Kathy—it was horrible. Should I contact her? I was unsure and I agonised over what to do. If I looked Kathy up, I might have to talk about my newly found personal freedom and my life in Sydney. I rationalised that, as my position was much better than hers, this might not benefit her. I was happy and single, residing in a city; she was isolated on a farm out of town with two young children and an abusive partner. This was my justification for not contacting her. After that, I didn’t think about Kathy Waite for a very long time.

  *

  Recently, I dreamt about Kathy Waite. My conscience tugged at me and forced me to re-examine the conversations that I had with Kathy, just before I was sixteen years old. I recall my visits as if it were yesterday. Is it because I felt beautiful for the first time? Or is it about the disturbing content of Kathy’s conversations with me? Probably both. Maybe if I had provided more moral guidance in my responses, passed some sort of opinion, objection, or judgement on her pocket money making activities, then her life may have turned out differently. I wondered why she had been attracted to an abuser. Did she not really know him? Had it been sheer bad luck? I know that abusers are clever in maintaining the honeymoon phase of the domestic violence cycle long enough for the victim to fall in love again, or become pregnant, before the next phase of the cycle begins. Was there a link though, between Kathy’s amorality as a teen and her later choice of partner? It is only now that I can make the links between Kathy, sex, money, and abuse, Mrs Turner, Vivienne Waite, Paddy and God. If only I had said something. I still don’t know what, but something. Maybe it doesn’t matter what words I might have spoken—Paddy is the one in the wrong, not Kathy, not I.

  Teenage girls explore their emerging sexuality in various ways. Kathy’s explorations occurred in a less conventional way. She enjoyed sex and she capitalised on it. So be it. But the spotlight needs to be shone on Paddy, not Kathy. Paddy is an abuser, the perpetrator and law breaker. Where was the local police officer as Paddy sat at the bar of the Top Pub bragging about keeping the mother of his children in line? Why did the Coolah blokes remain silent? Maybe Paddy needed local blokes to visit him and demand he stop his violent behaviour or he needed a visit from the policeman. As they had for Mr Turner, and the terribly abused Mrs Turner, a small remote community chose to turn a blind eye.

  I can still justify my responses to Kathy, when we were teenagers. The conversations may h
ave been about a bike, shoes, or sport, but just happened to be about sex. My responses were governed by my lack of experience, opinions or judgements toward sex. I really had nothing to offer at all. So, have I let myself off the moral conscience hook or not? My mind then conjures up responses I may have given, such as, “Do you really need the extra pocket money?” or “Don’t let them take advantage of you.” Even perhaps, “Don’t you think sex should be something you treasure?” Even if I had been able to find the right words back then, there are no guarantees that I could have influenced Kathy’s choice of partners.

  *

  On another trip home I saw my friend Genevieve in the main street of Coolah. We exchanged greetings. My primary school friend had left Coolah and attended boarding school in Sydney from year six up until year twelve. In her mid-twenties she had returned to Coolah to live. She proudly told me that she was dating William and waiting to be married. William was a handsome local vet, who was new to town. Two years later Genevieve was still waiting for his proposal. Just before she turned thirty, William finally proposed. I felt happy for her, on hearing the news; she must have felt relieved. Marriage was still the last thing on my list.

  *

  In my mid- twenties, I moved between many share houses in the inner west of Sydney. My father occasionally stayed with me, when he attended training courses. He slept on the couch. After one particular visit, where we went out for a cheap pub meal nearby, consuming alcohol together became our ritual. Generously, he insisted on paying for everything.

  “How can you afford it?” I asked.

  “Travel allowance,” he said, “I get paid well and you’ve let me stay at your place. I have spare money in my pocket, so let’s enjoy it.”

  I had a glimpse then, into why my mother had insisted on managing the money when I was growing up. On these visits to Sydney, I had an agenda—to gently probe and to prod with open-ended questions, about his upbringing. It worked best after a couple of drinks. He would tolerate three or four questions, and then I would sense that it was enough. With the passing of time, on another visit, I could again gently question him.

  During these conversations he talked of “a horrid upbringing,” and a “no-good family,” but the details are missing. He shared with me his memories: of living in a tent, in between government housing options; of stealing bread and being hungry; of being on the run, with his mother, to escape her second ex-husband’s violent temper and lying down in a train, leaving Sydney to hide in the Blue Mountains.

  “One time my mother was offered money for me, by a stranger, as we travelled on a train. I can’t remember how old I was, but I was happy she didn’t sell me,” he told me, only once. He grinned, “At least she didn’t sell me.”

  I have never forgotten that. Those memories that he shared, are, I suspect, a few of many others that are buried deep inside him. He commented too, on other occasions, that “It doesn’t worry me anymore,” and “I use to have a chip on my shoulder, but not anymore.” That implies acceptance. His upbringing was what it was. It can’t be erased, modified, glamorised or rewritten. I accept too, now, that it is my father’s right never to share all of the details of his upbringing; the gritty, unsavoury bits that make him pull himself back, if you edge too close to them. It is entirely his right, not telling. The trust he showed in sharing with me some loose threads, I am very grateful for. I need to accept that some pieces will always be missing. He can burn these pieces, or bury them so deeply that they will never resurface. The jigsaw partially took shape, but many pieces were never to be located.

  Inequality and poverty has driven so much in my life. My passion for understanding it has flourished and been evident in both the way that I have lived my life and my career choices. I have never wavered from my belief that every single person needs opportunity; that inequality need not exist, and that poverty is a societal crime.

  *

  I once enquired about Rodney, my half-cousin. My father, via his half-sister, relayed that Rodney was up to his eyeballs in bad things in Sydney: petty crime that had led to more serious crime. Rumour had it that he was now a pimp. He created so much trouble in his mother’s already troubled life. Too many phone calls from the police, dodgy characters—she eventually told him not to phone her anymore. Despite Rodney not visiting our family in Coolah, and not having seen him for over a decade, he too has stuck in my mind. I recall the sparkle in Rodney’s eye as a kid; how I had decided that he deserved opportunities. Rodney’s situation has always stayed with me. I also reflected on those infrequent visits to my father’s relatives in my teenage years and how I had, for a few moments felt better off, superior and wealthy in relation to them. People are people and no-one is better off compared to another person. My father’s relatives all wore big smiles on their faces, at every visit. I wondered if those smiles were there every day, or were just for when we visited. That, I will never ever know.

  *

  Today, I am in contact with one of the younger twins, Suzie. I was recently invited to visit her extended family and friends, who all gather for a summer holiday in a sleepy little beach town each year. The friends who attended had formed friendships in Coolah over the car parts, motorbikes, and football in the twins’ front yard. Six families gathered together, holidaying, relaxing and having fun. We reminisced about the wild old days, and growing up in Coolah. After a day of sun and fun at the beach, we gathered at the holiday house that three of the families were renting. After many red wines and in a relaxed atmosphere, I asked them about their memories of growing up in Coolah.

  “Did you like growing up in Coolah?” I asked the oldest male twin.

  “Shit yeah. I loved it. I had so much fun with all of my mates. We were as poor as church mice. We had nothing. But as a kid that never worried me,” he said.

  He left school at year ten, embraced being a wild rogue for a short time, then married, and four children later he is a devoted family man. He manages his own drilling company with operations all over the state. This male twin still has the look of contentment on his face that I recalled from his adolescent days.

  As for myself, after I had studied sociology at university, I climbed the career ladder in the public service, and later travelled to many more countries—still searching for the meaning of life and seeking contentment. This twin was happy to accept whatever life threw his way, twenty years ago and now. Why didn’t I get a bit of this?

  “How was growing up in Coolah for you?” I asked one of the youngest twins, Sam. Unlike Suzie, the twin I was closer to, this twin did not go to Sydney to live, attend university, or travel.

  “We had so much freedom in that small town. We could walk about the street, walk to and from the pool. We walked to afternoon sport, rode our bikes anywhere. I loved growing up in Coolah,” Sam said. This twin had always had a smile on her face, too, and her happy-go-lucky nature was as evident today as it was when she was growing up. Wow, such different experiences to mine, I thought.

  My closest twin friend, Suzie, who I had shared with in Sydney, had this to say: “We had so much freedom. But I wanted to leave and get out.”

  Suzie had left home and Coolah at twenty years of age. She, like me, had achieved her goals the long way. With a Higher School Certificate result similar to mine, she had worked and studied in a course to gain entry into university as a mature-aged student—where she achieved great marks. She then travelled overseas and worked her way up to a senior level in the government sector. Now, married and raising two children, she wants to give them the opportunities that she never had. She has made a different life for herself, but she too had fond memories of Coolah. All of the siblings and parents of this family get together for a meal, every five years or so. At these gatherings I feel envious of their ease in each other’s company; the mutual respect, and their fondness for one another. They reminisce and laugh— on one occasion about a recent surprise party that they had thrown for their mother’s seventieth birthday. Their mother and stepfather had married, a
fter the five kids left home, and are growing old together.

  I wish that I had more fond family memories, beyond running through the bush, chasing kangaroos and emus, and going on family adventure days. I suppose the big ordeal came to dominate my memory, crowding out other memories of growing up. It being not a very nice memory, perhaps the childhood and adolescent experiences that I have shared here are skewed and distorted. The big ordeal robbed me of so much.

  As for my brothers, they all took separate paths in their lives and we all reside in different townships. I have a relationship with each brother, which is often sporadic and undefined by special occasions. Our versions of what happened and our memories of our time growing up in Coolah vary greatly. So, much is left unsaid, including the big ordeal.

  The mantra of “You are on your own once you are eighteen years of age,” has stuck as we all made our way into the world at eighteen years of age and to a degree we have all remained “on our own.” We all live our lives independently from one another. Even Christmas day rarely brings us all together. I imagine a funeral will. But the one thing we all have in common is walking cautiously around my mother for the past three decades.

  chapter twenty-six

  CAREER, TRAVEL AND MARRIAGE

  After university I worked for some time in the New South Wales Little Athletics Association as an Education and Development Officer. I attended schools, athletic carnivals, and camps all over New South Wales. I spent three months of each year in remote areas, with kids who were attending the “school of the air” and were from large Aboriginal families. I loved it, but after two and a half years, often working seven days a week as well as travelling, my social conscience started to bother me. I yearned to work with struggling people, to address inequality. I was fortunate to start a job as a Health Educator with Campbelltown Community Health Service. I had begun my social justice work. In the outer suburbs of Sydney, some were ninety per cent Department of Housing dwellings, which was similar to Liverpool, where my father’s relatives had lived. Developing social action initiatives compounded my view that if struggling people are given opportunities in life, then the majority will respond to them. The manager ensured that we all worked as a team and no hierarchy existed. This was a first for me.