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A PREMONITION

It started out as an ordinary Newcastle day, one weekend early in March 1984. Something was creating a strange sense of sadness and unease in me. I was crying and couldn’t explain why. There was no obvious reason. My children were settled and happy. My parents were living just around the corner in Cooks Hill, an inner-city Newcastle suburb close to the harbour and the Pacific Ocean. My brother and two sisters were happily married and raising their families. Not long before, I’d left my job at the radio station 2KO, because it had become difficult to juggle working full-time with raising two young children as a single parent. I was determined that they wouldn’t become latchkey children, waiting for me to finish work in the afternoon. It wasn’t an easy decision to leave full-time work in a job that I loved, but I’d quickly found a part-time position in a local solar business.

Kathy, my younger sister, was concerned enough to call by. Over endless cups of tea, we tried to figure out a reason for the tears, for these thoughts roiling around in my mind. It was good to have my sister doing her best to cheer me up.

But still the tears flowed. After a restless night’s sleep, on Monday I felt even more exhausted. I’d never experienced anything like this. I worried about dehydration, not knowing where and why the tears were coming. Kathy decided to call our doctor, who dropped by after work; he confirmed that all my vital organs were working, but he couldn’t shed any light on my fragile state of mind. At times I’d be laughing at the absurdity of crying for no known reason.

By Tuesday, although the tears had eased a little, a heavy sadness lingered over me. I decided to stay inside for the day, still puzzled about the source of my unexplained melancholy.

Meanwhile, in a doctor’s surgery in the Victorian town of Heathcote, the patients were getting restless. It was the Tuesday morning after a long weekend. Many had waited for surgery hours to consult their local GP, Dr Stuart Wynter, but there was no sign of him. Something must be wrong.

The receptionist phoned his home, but there was no answer.

She did her best to reassure his patients. Maybe he’d been delayed by an urgent house call or an emergency at the hospital. She made a call to the hospital, hoping it would solve the problem. But no, the hospital staff hadn’t heard from Dr Wynter or seen him all weekend.

His lateness was out of character. He’d always been there. He’d never let his patients down like this.

Dr Wynter’s partner, Dr Jim Casey, was worried when he heard that Stuart hadn’t turned up for work. The two doctors had known each other for about five years, having met in March 1979 on the Micronesian island of Banaba. They’d worked together in the Heathcote practice since February 1982, and their daily routines were well established.

Six months earlier, Stuart Wynter and his wife Raken had purchased a one-acre block of land with a view to erecting a family home. Stuart had mentioned to Jim Casey that they might do some work on the land over the long weekend. The Wynters and their four-year-old daughter, Binatia, had waved to Dr Casey from the driveway of their flat as they prepared to head off for church on Sunday morning. ‘They appeared to be the way they normally were seen by people – to be a happy family,’ Dr Casey said.

Two hours later, at about 11.30 am, Dr Casey had received a phone call from Stuart pleading for a talk. From the distress in Stuart’s voice, Dr Casey knew that something was wrong, and he went straight over to the Wynters’ flat. It immediately became obvious that the Wynters weren’t a happy family at all. Stuart said he and Raken had had a serious argument, and he was worried that the situation could prove ‘irrevocable’.

Over the rest of that day, Stuart repeatedly tried to persuade Raken to speak to Dr Casey, but she refused. Jim became convinced that she was angry with him and didn’t want him to be involved. By the evening he was ‘extremely concerned, and also frightened’. The next day, he heard nothing from either of the Wynters, and his state of unease increased.

Stuart was due to work at the local hospital at 8.30 on Tuesday morning, but he didn’t turn up. Dr Casey phoned him three times without receiving a response. At 9.45 am, he drove past the flat and noticed that both cars were parked outside, all the blinds were drawn and the lounge-room light was on. Dr Casey proceeded to the medical centre, which was directly across the road, and spoke with his receptionist, who told him Dr Wynter hadn’t yet arrived. She also remarked that she’d expected a visit from the Wynters at her place on Saturday evening, but they hadn’t come.

The waiting room was getting very crowded. Anxious looks replaced boredom.

By now, the receptionist had phoned the flat several times, and so had Dr Casey. The receptionist had also established that Binatia wasn’t at her pre-school. Dr Casey’s concern grew by the hour.

He cancelled Stuart’s morning appointments and decided to drive past the flat once more. Nothing had changed, and both cars were still parked in the driveway.

Dr Casey drove to the police station, where he reported his concerns to Senior Constable George Entwistle. He drove back to the flat with Entwistle, who entered the flat through the unlocked back door while Dr Casey waited outside.

A few moments later, Constable Entwistle came back and beckoned Dr Casey into the flat. In the bedroom were the bodies of Raken, Stuart and Binatia.

At about four o’clock that afternoon in Newcastle, I received a phone call from a sergeant at Mayfield police station. He told me that Eve Wynter, Stuart’s mother, had asked him to phone. He had some bad news. ‘Stuart Wynter is deceased,’ he told me. I immediately asked if Raken and Binatia were OK. I held my breath as I waited for his reply, silently saying ‘Please, please God – no, please.’ After a few seconds, he said quietly, ‘No – they are all deceased.’

At that instant, my mind began spinning like the wheels of an overturned truck after a crash. I was facing my own past.

Later that afternoon, my sister Margaret drove me to visit Eve, Stuart’s mum, who lived alone in the family home. We were all still trying to comprehend the news. Two police officers spoke with my sister while I comforted Eve. The officers were puzzled about how I knew the deaths weren’t accidental. No-one had given me any details. Margaret smiled grimly and said, ‘She knows.’