After five weeks with Lawrie and Jill, I stopped eating their rabbit and squash. I asked Bon to purchase a large box of shortbread biscuits, and began to live off those along with a couple of boiled eggs and a slice of toast each morning provided by Jill. Bon hadn’t been surprised by my order and hinted he understood the reason; he probably did, as he claimed to have a number of relatives in Weabonga. Vic or Jan Teegan brought me fresh milk each morning from their farm when they dropped off Lindie and Susie. The Teegans also didn’t seem surprised by my request and hinted that they understood the reason. So, I thought, the whole district must know of my plight.
I hadn’t told the tennis families of my woes—I didn’t want to appear to be complaining about a village family, particularly when their children were in my care. However, I had been informed, subtly and by inference, that my landlords were the only family that would provide accommodation for me. The other village families had crowded houses, and the graziers wouldn’t have been able to spare the time to deliver and retrieve me each day. To ensure the school would be reopened, Lawrie and Jill had stepped forward to do their best; I understood that.
It was widely believed that my rent would give them significant financial assistance, and I understood that as well. On the first morning I’d asked Jill how she would like to receive my board, and she had said, ‘Once a month, as a cheque. Just leave it open. Don’t make it out to anyone. That’ll work best for us. We can cash it in any shop then—any shop in town will do that. So that’s easiest.’ From that response I understood that my rent money would remain without a trail as far as Lawrie and Jill were concerned, and that was fine by me. They needed every penny they could get for their boys.
Over the first month the family hadn’t gone to town, but when I delivered my first payment they set off for a day in Tamworth. On their return I noticed they carried in a number of bags and packages. Unfortunately, it seemed none contained food items.
On a diet of two eggs, six biscuits and a couple of glasses of milk a day, I began to deteriorate. Within a short time, sharp and persistent stomach pains began. This became a constant nagging that reminded me insistently of my discontent.
By the time Easter approached, on the third Sunday in April, I was feeling quite desperate: I had no company of my own age, I had an improper diet, I spoke with other adults only on Sunday afternoons for a few hours at most, and I lived in a tar-paper cubby. I loved being with the children, but that wasn’t enough to make up for everything else.
I remembered fondly my college classmates and Kegworth colleagues, as well as the group of friends I’d grown up with. Even my six obligatory months in the military—in National Service barracks packed with hundreds of young guys—began to look more attractive in hindsight.
Until now I’d always been surrounded by friends of my own age. I had a lively, at times exciting and always fulfilling social life. My church youth group met one night each month, and enjoyed outings and activities together between times. In winter I played in their Rugby League team, which gave me an opportunity to meet lots of young people from other suburban church groups.
I had a closer group of five male friends, my mates, some of whom I’d known since Kindergarten, and we spent lots of time together. All of us played in the local footy team, and three of us were keen dancers and went out a few nights a week to suburban dance halls. We enjoyed the music and the dancing, and these nights also gave us a chance to meet young women. On the non-dance nights, if we weren’t taking young ladies on a date, my mates met to play billiards and share a few drinks in a city pool hall, or to play tennis on a floodlit court.
My problems at home in Sydney had been to do with finding privacy, not enduring loneliness. I had four siblings, and my gregarious mother frequently hosted guests; sometimes friends from the country stayed for days or weeks at a time. We had a largish extended family, and cousins and aunts came to see us often. My mother had been born and grew up in Ireland, so there was much music, singing and dancing, with jigs, reels, the Blackbird and the Irish hornpipe. Every few months my parents arranged a music night: a ceilidh. About twenty of their friends would come, three of whom brought their fiddles. They’d move the dining-room table and rugs out of the way before beginning their Irish set dances, with space for two sets of eight dancers each in the cleared room. As soon as we children had sufficient rhythm and knew the steps, we were encouraged to join in. We loved it all: the harmonies, the happiness, the vivacity and sheer good humour. Between dances there was lively conversation and all were included, so we children learnt to take part, in a respectful way, with people of all ages. On some other evenings my father would sit for an hour or so playing the piano contentedly, either Thomas Moore’s melodies or similar Irish songs. Dad had a pleasant tenor voice and would often sing along, accompanying himself. So there was always music, laughter and chatter in our home.
After a couple of months in Weabonga, I was quite bereft and needed a circuit-breaker. I decided to return to Sydney to spend the Easter holiday at home, eating three proper meals a day while catching up with family and friends—including Patricia, who was coming up to Sydney from Melbourne. I’d get a lift out with Bon in the mail car, then catch the train.
Ringing Mr Flood, I explained my intentions and the reasons the school would not reopen until eleven on the Wednesday morning. I spelt out why I needed the break. When he heard of my living conditions, he became very sympathetic and expressed his regret for having placed me in this situation. But he didn’t offer any help.
The long weekend at home was the reward I’d thought it would be, allowing me to catch up with everyone and engage in happy, light-hearted events. There were lots of lively conversations but I spoke little to my family of my living arrangements; there was nothing my loved ones could do to alleviate them, and they would only worry.
I spent some wonderful time with Patricia and chose to share only some of my woes with her too. She’d travelled up to visit her family but also to see me, and I appreciated her readiness to arrange time for us to get together. All indications were that she returned my feelings, which did much to calm my worries and feed my hopes.
On the Saturday the two of us had dinner at Ling Nam’s, a basement restaurant on King Street. We enjoyed the calm atmosphere, our table for two conducive to an intimate têteà-tête. A small, relaxed orchestra played danceable numbers, and we moved on and off the dance floor as our courses were served and dishes taken away. We ordered sparkling red wine, its fizz elevating our happiness.
I told my five mates more of the Weabonga reality, and they told me to ditch the whole arrangement and demand that the Department of Education redress these appalling circumstances. In their opinion, no Australian in 1960 needed to accept what I was being asked to tolerate. That’s what mates are for, I thought.
As I travelled back from Limbri in the mail car beside the Swamp Oak Creek—asking often for the car to stop so I could hop out to escape the noxious fumes of a farting kelpie who lay at the driver’s feet—I decided my situation must improve. I knew now I had to resolve the situation myself. If my accommodation remained as it was, I would ask the inspector for a transfer. I’d give it until the May school vacation, coming up in less than a month. The challenges of Weabonga had forced me to grow as a person, and I was now prepared to speak up on my own behalf.
The inspector had told me that he’d found it hard to keep the school staffed. Now I understood why.