Back to the city, again

For the first two years of Better Homes, we did a lot of building and land­scaping on our home at Hazelbrook. We were rapidly running out of things to do. Noni and I were earning good money for the first time in our lives. I suggested buying a waterfront block on my beloved Scotland Island and building a house from scratch on the show. Noni agreed with the notion and that’s what we did. So we could keep control of our property, Noni and I produced the segments and sold them to Better Homes. This helped pay the camera crew and the building crew; it still cost us for materials, unless we could organise a contra deal with the supply companies. There was a heck of a lot of work involved. The builder, Greg Torpe, and I organised the entire shit fight. First we had to have a house drawn up and get the plans through council. Then the land had to be prepared for building and materials had to be barged and trucked to the site. We’d do one segment every fortnight.

This is how it worked. I’d start with the closer of the segment we’d done the week before. For example, we’d put the last post in place for the segment about footings and posts the fortnight before. Then we’d do the opener for the next segment, bearers and joists, then we’d spend the segment putting bearers and joists into place. We’d spend the fortnight finishing the bearers and joists and starting the flooring. We’d pick points on the three levels of the building, set up four stages of flooring, being careful to leave a space free of floorboards to enable us to do the bearers and joists closer, followed by the flooring opener. Complex, eh! I would have been stuffed without Torpe, who is a consummate builder and a great organiser. He got onto the TV thing very quickly. He’s a big unit, 6 foot 5 and solid. He’s a Pittwater kid: we had him labouring for Rossini’s Raiders when he was a teenager, and he did his time as a shipwright. Your average house takes six months to finish; we took two years.

Here’s the clincher. Noni wasn’t too keen to be so far away from Scotland Island. I’d have to stay in town a lot, in a hotel or something. At the time a distance had developed between us, and I just didn’t feel comfortable in the relationship. I liked the fact that Better Homes was keeping us busy. Her segment took her away from the house for a couple of days a week and my segment kept me in my workshop – garage most of the week. Weekends were about kids, and every second one involved getting Ebony from the city and taking her back. The house was always crawling with crew, our nanny, cleaners and our PA Linley. Not surprisingly, this wasn’t good for a relationship that was already shaky. Noni and I were ill at ease: we niggled each other and argued a far bit.

Linley was much more than a PA: she was a close personal friend of both of ours, and still is. She ended up being our mediator. I’d whinge to her about Noni and Noni would whinge to her about me. She’d find a way to sort us out and things would be okay until the next round. It was upsetting for Linley because she loved us both. She used to say, ‘It’s such a shame, you’re both so much alike, you’re too much alike, two lions in a cage both trying to be in charge.’ I think that sums it up in many ways.

It wasn’t all bad. Christmas 1997 was a great memory. It was our only holiday during Better Homes. We flew to Tasmania and stayed in the beautiful fishing town of Bridport. Two of my two favourite people in the world live there, Will and Sharon. I’ve known Will for thirty-five years – he used to rent my first house on Scotland Island. We had the most relaxing time on that holiday. I hate fishing, it’s boring and I generally don’t catch anything. Will’s mate forced me to go out on his boat by exciting Ebony and Charlie. I begrudgingly joined them. In an hour we pulled in thirty-six flathead, most of them caught by Ebony and Charlie. It’s the only time Ebony’s excitement has matched Charlie’s. They were so elated I thought they were going to explode. Will’s mate had so many fish he drove around town giving them away. He offered to take us again and everyone, including me, said, ‘Yes, please.’

Noni wanted to move back to the city, but I didn’t. We sold Hazelbrook and moved to Castlecrag on the North Shore. Not cheap. We spent a lot on property during the Better Homes years. Even though we were well paid, we weren’t saving much. The Castlecrag house was a rendered brick house on a sloping block. The house didn’t really need work, but I couldn’t help myself. There was a lot of headroom underneath the house, so I got a jackhammer and carved out two more rooms. I’d come back from island building and do Castlecrag building and child-raising.

Charlie was still a handful. He was nine and Will was almost three. Will was fine until you put him to bed; he was not a good sleeper either. I spent the first two years of his life sleeping next to him on a mattress on the floor. I’d learnt to lock my hand into the slats of his cot so he could hold my hand and go to sleep. Imagine how great that was for my relationship. By the time I got to Castlecrag I’d had a gutful. We decided to let him scream his guts out every night until he got over it. It took weeks; this kind of training should happen at six months, not two years and six months. One night I could hear a woman talking outside his window. The next-door neighbour thought we were abusing him. Not a good headline.

Charlie was still up to his tricks. Ebony couldn’t understand him. One Saturday morning we were trying to get him to clean up his room. He refused, and this confrontation went on and on. In the end, quiet little Ebony got exasperated by it. She leant in to Charlie and said, ‘Why don’t you just do it?’

‘Because I don’t want to.’

Aaah! I sent him to his room and he just sat on his bed.

I came in. ‘Fine, I’ll clean up.’

I took every last toy including his beloved Lego models and put them on top of my wardrobe. I went back to the room and said, ‘I’m keeping your toys for a month, what do you think of that?’

He looked at the top of his shelf and pointed. ‘You missed one.’

He was pointing out a Lego piece I’d missed, little bugger!

Noni was a light sleeper; I snored, so most nights I slept in the spare room downstairs. I was happy with that and I think Noni was too. It would have been well and truly over if it wasn’t for the kids. I think we were both hanging in for them. It’s children’s eyes that bring me undone. Any time I thought of leaving I’d look at Charlie and Will’s wide child eyes and I’d immediately remember Ebony’s baby eyes looking at me and Zadia’s crying eyes across the room and I couldn’t leave my boys. I couldn’t stay with my girls that day, but I had a choice with my boys. I couldn’t leave.

We were well-off and I should’ve been happy, but I’d never been so sad and lonely in my life. I came home from work one day and I was walking around. It seemed that no one was home. I walked to the bathroom and the door was open.

Noni was lying back in the bath looking out the window. She ignored me.

I said, ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Something’s wrong.’

She continued looking out the window.

Finally I said, ‘What’s wrong?’

She turned her head slowly and looked at me. ‘Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.’ She looked back out the window.

It could have been I’d forgotten to put the bins out; it could have been that she thought I was having an affair. I’ll never know.

The Chatswood house

Noni was obsessed with the real estate pages. She came across an amazing property that sounded very promising for a bloke with my skills. It was at the bottom of a hill about a ten-minute walk due west of the Chatswood CBD. To get to there, you drove down a lane past the street-front properties. It opened up to a beautiful established three-quarter-acre block. The block was mainly flat and completely private. It sloped away at the back down to a creek with lush natural bushland bordering the stream. It was surrounded by Crown land, so the block seemed even bigger than it was. Nestled in the middle was a quaint little two-bedroom cottage, built in the late 1800s. It was run-down and dilapidated; it belonged to an old couple whose family had been there many years.

It must be obvious to the reader by now that building had become another addiction, and like all addicts at the height of addiction, I couldn’t see it. I recognised my alcoholism and put down the glass twenty-five years ago, but I only recognised that I’m a build-aholic four years ago. I’ve managed to put down the tools. They’re all under the house, and I’m still very tempted at times. Writing this book has enabled me to recognise how full-on my building addiction is. Like all addictions, it allowed me to escape my life problems and responsibilities I didn’t want to deal with.

Noni and I both agreed that this was it. This was going to be the house of our dreams and our future. I put everything into it. Also, I was a realist. I knew Noni and I were touch-and-go, but I thought if worst came to worst, she and the boys could live in Chatswood and I could live in the island house.

I removed the roofing iron, all the internal and external cladding from the four rooms, the verandah, and the bathroom and toilet. I replaced the verandah, wrapping it around the front and one side, and made it 3 metres wide. At the front, I extended it past the front bedroom to the side of the house and added another bedroom off it. I closed in the verandah the length of the front room, installing a massive bathroom and an internal hall leading to the new bedroom. On the other side, I extended the verandah past the lounge. I closed it in and installed a beautiful hand-crafted kitchen courtesy of Nikos. I extended the back of the house substantially with a large dining room off the kitchen, and an entranceway leading onto a central deck off the lounge. Next to that I built a huge main bedroom, 5 metres by 4 metres, with an ensuite and a walk-in robe attached.

Nikos and Barry built the house, working full-time for six months. All my spare time was spent working with them. Davo and Ray did the painting and finishings. I built this house using the best of the best materials. As far as I was concerned, this was my swan song and it was going to be a magnificent house to be lived in and enjoyed for years to come. I spent a lot of cash on this joint. I hadn’t put aside my tax as I knew we were earning enough the following year to sort it. We were still number one and the show was one of Channel Seven’s flagships. Every year we got a substantial raise. It was important to get this home right. I didn’t want more loans: we already had three mortgages, so I had to spend my wages.

The Soothsayer was spouting prophecies of gloom and doom for the turn of the century in 2000. It was all over the news: computers, passenger jets and other things were going to crash. We all got a bit revved up about it and Noni voiced her concern. The shift of the San Andreas fault was a scientific fact. As a result, massive tsunamis would hit Australia. It was overdue by 150 years. Noni was concerned that if we took it for granted, the children would drown under a massive tsunami that would hit Sydney up to eleven times. An earthquake in Chile in 1960 caused a tsunami to travel 10,000 miles to Hawaii, where it caused extensive damage. The distance from LA to Sydney is 7500 miles, and the California quake was predicted to be much more severe.

I first heard about this back in 1977 from a bloke who owned three big ferry cruisers at Palm Beach. He was worried about it and he found out it would take eleven hours for the wave to hit Australia: they travel at almost 1000 km/h! He figured he could steam up the Hawkesbury to Windsor, where he’d be safe from the wave’s reach. Noni said it would be impossible to get out of Sydney because road and rail would be at a standstill. I’d always wanted a timber cruiser. Noni got her escape vehicle and I got a 33-foot double-ender called the Dolphin. Pretty as a picture, I fell in love. More money spent, more escapist woodwork for me. The family had such fun aboard the Dolphin, chugging up to Lion Island and around the corner into the most beautiful waterway in the world, the Rea, the sunken river valley of the mighty Hawkesbury.

Nineteen ninety-eight was coming to a close. Linley and her husband James were going to work in London for two years (which turned into seventeen: I just got off the phone to her in Mexico City). I was really gonna miss them. Linley is a character; I could write a book about her exploits. Here’s my all-time favourite. Linley is the strongest woman I know. Her husband Jimmy is a long, tall computer dude, quiet compared to Linley (she could talk underwater with a mouthful of marbles). They were in the cinema watching a movie and this spivvy westie behind her answers his mobile.

Linley turned to him. ‘What do ya think you’re doing? Turn that fuckin’ thing off.’

He turned it off, crossed his legs and kicked her in the back of the head. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to kick you in the head.’

Linley swivelled in her chair, locked her knees into the back of the seat and punched this guy in the ribs and stomach. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to thump you in the guts.’

His girlfriend went to say something but Linley shut her up. ‘Shut ya mouth or I’ll fill it full of broken teeth.’

They got up with the guy wheezing as he left.

James couldn’t believe it, ‘What if they go to the cops?’

‘Yeah sure. “Officer! A 5 foot 3 blonde just beat the shit outta me.”’

We had a big get-together for Zadia’s twenty-first, poolside at Mum and Dad’s. The cake was fabulous, the number 21 designed to look like a set of lips sucking a thumb. Zadia sucked her thumb until she was about eight. If something terrible happens she’ll still sit in my lap and suck her thumb. She’s 5 foot 10. It makes me feel quite smothered.

It was a great celebration; her present was an all-expenses-paid holiday with her boyfriend Nick to Bali. Zadia lucked out; she’s the only one who turned twenty-one when I was earning a decent quid. It turned out to be the last family get-together with Noni. Things still weren’t right between us. Linley felt that we didn’t have time to ourselves. We were trying. That year I bought Noni a Mercedes sports car, but even that went sour: it was full of rust. So, just before Christmas we took the rust bucket to the Southern Highlands for a few days. It was very pleasant and worth the effort. Under the right circumstances, Noni and I were good mates. We had great conversations and a lot of laughs. I looked forward to doing the hostings every week. We were professionals, so we’d put any conflict behind us and give the hostings our best shot. Noni wrote them, and they were always witty and funny. I just remember them with absolute fondness. We laughed a lot.

Ebony had to have her tonsils out when she was thirteen. Two years earlier she’d had her third and final eye operation, and she was about to get an expensive set of braces for her teeth. She’d had more than her share of medical procedures as a kid. I didn’t get to the hospital until after the tonsils had been removed. Ebony was just lying there with a very sore throat, staring at the wall, typical post-op. So I sat there talking to this vision in soft light sitting across from me. The light source backlit Rosa: she was shimmering, it took my breath away. My love for her hadn’t diminished; that absence makes the heart grow fonder is absolutely true in my case. Rosa had bought a one-bedroom timber cottage in the upper mountains. I added two more bedrooms and made it a DIY segment on Better Homes in ’97. I think she forgave me a little after that and the ice began to thaw after twelve years of separation. From that point we slowly became friends again.

The clanger

By the beginning of 1999, Castlecrag was sold and we’d moved all our furniture into the finished sections of Chatswood. There wasn’t a lot left to do before we could move in. We lived in our new home on Scotland Island. Poor Charlie had a long drive to school and back, but apart from that I loved living there.

Noni came to me and said she’d made up her mind to go back to the mountains. She just didn’t feel right staying in the city and if I really cared about my children’s future, I’d back her. A major disaster was not fortune-telling, it was scientific fact. I reminded her that we had a boat, and she pointed out that’d only work if we lived on the island. She was right, but I just couldn’t live like that. I was nine years sober; I’d learnt to live in the present. Chatswood was not a spec-build; it was long-term with no expenses spared. I told her no, I wasn’t coming. Noni was confident I’d come around; she’d always convinced me in the past. Somehow this was it for me. I’d had enough.

It finally became obvious I’d walked away and it was over. Noni managed to get a mortgage in her name and bought a 21-acre property with a good-sized forties timber house on it, back in Hazelbrook. We sold the Chatswood house at auction. Noni got it and I got the island house and my mountain acreage. Better Homes wanted me to continue with the show but I did the gentlemanly thing and left Noni to host it. In hindsight, I should have stayed on for a year and fixed my tax bill. Some you win, some you lose.

Between 1985 and 1999, Noni and I bought nine properties and rented five. No wonder we didn’t come out of this shining – that ain’t no way to earn a buck. I was unemployed and I owed the tax department. I had to sell my sacred 60 acres in the mountains and put the island home on the market. I had my eye on an old fibro shack close to Tennis Wharf that I could renovate. It took a while to sell the island house, so thankfully the shack was still available.

Meanwhile, I had to get a job. I didn’t get a lot of work between 1990 and 1995. What I did do wasn’t successful, so I was out of the public eye as an actor from 1990 until I quit Better Homes in ’99. I wanted to get back into acting, but not much was coming my way. I’d become very well-known as a TV personality, and younger people didn’t know I was an actor. There was a woman in Newport I knew who had a lot of experience in lifestyle–reality TV production. I had a few ideas that she fleshed out for me and made presentable. I took these ideas to all the networks and the Lifestyle Channel. The Lifestyle Channel was the only bite I got and it’s the one I wanted most. It was an hour-long documentary called Men + Alcohol = Violence. It was eye-opening. We started with two middle-aged sober alcoholics, one of whom was Davo. We re-enacted both their stories from when they started until they hit rock bottom and how they’d recovered. The middle section was interviews with alcoholics in jail who’d been incarcerated because of their drinking. The second half was a delinquent who’d been saved and turned around by a mentoring program between teachers and the police. This guy went from torching cars and bashing people to becoming Campbelltown High School captain, a basketball champion and a university graduate. Finally we went to primary schools that taught life skills, emotions, anger management, meditating and so on. This is the answer, using our education system to teach people how to live. The documentary was very well received.

I spent 1999 in a blur, moving on from Noni into the next phase, clearing up the past and sorting out the future. Apart from the doco, I didn’t work.

Strangely enough, I spent a bit of time at Noni’s new house. I had a caravan, so I stayed in that. She had a bit of toing and froing to Sydney with Better Homes, I was available, so I was only too happy to be with the boys. They were going through separation trauma and Charlie especially was angry that I’d abandoned them. This was perfectly normal, Zadia went through it too. It was good to be with them when I could.

Will had just started school, so I’d drop them off, go back to Noni’s and tow out acres of lantana with my FJ Holden. I couldn’t help myself.

After school we’d hang out and play soccer. Both boys played soccer, and Will was right into it from when he was three. He played in the under-fives. He missed his first game with flu and couldn’t make the second, so his first match was third game in. I was walking him to the oval and he said, ‘I’m scared, Dad.’

I told the coach and he said, ‘I’ve seen him go around at training, he’ll be right.’

They won eleven goals to one. Will kicked ten of them and set the other one up. The opposition scored their goal when Will was off for his ten minutes. How over the moon was he, how proud was I, how big was my ego. That’s my boy!

By the end of ’99 I’d sold the Scotland Island waterfront: the worst property decision of my life. I couldn’t get a job to save myself and I was behind on the mortgage. If I’d hung in for five more months, I could have kept it.

I bought the fibro shack and booked a ski holiday to visit Brian in January 2000. In the late nineties Brian became a ski instructor. He went to California in November ’98 and scored a job at Dodge Ridge Ski Resort in the Sierra Nevada. He met and fell in love with a local girl, Barb, and he’s been there with her ever since. Our family aren’t used to being apart, so we really miss each other.

Brian met me in San Francisco. We drove two hours north-west, through rolling green hills, past the San Andreas Fault, through Modesto where George Star Wars Lucas was raised, past Gethsemane National Park, into the pine-clad mountains to a village called Strawberry, where Brian lives in a beautiful little cabin surrounded by snow and massive pine trees. We were greeted with Barb’s big beautiful smile, a warm fire and a hearty, superbly cooked meal. Barb and Brian are a great couple, both noisy, funny people with big personalities.

‘Barb, brace yourself, I’m a sexual athlete – three and a half minutes including the dismount!’

‘Go fuck yourself, Brian, don’t talk like that in front of your brother, motherfucker.’

She’s an Aussie in a Yank body. She gets it, she understands self-deprecating Aussie humour. Most Yanks get insulted by it and don’t understand it.

Yank: ‘You called your friend Shit Head. Why would you call him that?’

Ozzie: ‘Because he’s my friend. He calls me Fuck Face.’

Yank: ‘That’s disgusting, I don’t get it.’

Ozzie: ‘Oh, come on mate, don’t be a dickhead.’

Yank: ‘Were you being nice to me then?’

Ozzie: ‘Nah, I was telling you off.’

Yank: ‘I don’t get it.’

It was my first time skiing outside of Australia. Dodge Ridge is considered a small family resort but it has much longer runs than Aussie ski fields.

I skied with Brian’s eleven-year-old stepdaughter, Brook. She was very good and I had to work hard to stay with her. To ease the boredom sitting on the chairlift, I taught her how to say something with an Aussie accent: ‘Get a woolly pup up ya!’

‘Get a woolly pup up ya,’ I said.

‘Get a woolly purp urp ya,’ said Brook.

‘No, no, widen your mouth and say “paaaauup aaaup ya”.’

‘Paaaauup urp ya.’

‘Aaaaup ya.’

‘Aaaaup ya.’

‘Paaauup aaaup ya.’

‘Paaaauup aaaup ya.’

‘That’s it! Get a woolly paaaauup aaaup ya.’

‘Get a woolly paaaauup aaaup ya.’

‘That’s it! You got it.’

We kept practising and laughing ourselves sick.

We found Brian on the beginner slope teaching a bunch of five-year-olds. We skied down to him and Brook yelled ‘Hey Briiiieean, get a woolly pup up ya?’

Well, I thought he was going to pass out. He fell onto his side in the snow and laughed his guts out. The little kids were looking confused; they didn’t know what to make of it. Brooke still greets Brian with, ‘Get a woolly pup up ya.’

A lot of the time I’d tag along with Brian and join his adult classes, so we got to ski a lot together during my time there. One night we had a big dump of snow. We headed up to Dodge knowing there were a couple of feet of virgin powder snow waiting for us. Brian lived for days like these. Today I was on my own: he wasn’t going to frig around waiting for me to keep up. When we got to the top, Brian said, ‘Just ski old school (legs together) and face your body down the hill at all times. Have fun, see ya.’

I could hardly wait – I’d never skied in powder this thick. It’s weird, you’re up to your knees in snow, it feels like that’d slow you down, but you’re going at a hell of a pace. I was heading down keeping my rhythm, doing all right. Suddenly the hill fell sharply and my pace quickened. I panicked a little, lost my rhythm and went out of control. I managed to keep my body facing downhill. I fell forward, did a complete somersault and ended up in the sitting position, covered in snow looking downhill. I ‘come a gutsa’ – which is a segue to this story.

One of Brian’s instructors at the ski school, let’s call him Jeff, came down the hill and said, ‘Hey Brian, I just skied over the rise on number four and wiped out.’

‘Listen, Jeff, next time that happens, don’t say you wiped out – in Australia we’d say “I come a gutsa”. Sounds better, gives it more oomph.’

‘Okay, Brian.’

A couple of weeks later, ‘Hey Brian, I came a gutser.’

‘Nah, Jeff, it’s “I come a gutsa”, not “came a gutsa”.’

‘But “come” is the wrong tense.’

‘Doesn’t matter, “come” sounds better.’

‘But Brian, it doesn’t make sense!’

‘Fuck off, Jeff.’

I love that story.

Coming home one night from Dodge was almost as exciting as the skiing. Brian’s always been a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care type. He had a big old Chevy pick-up truck. It had been snowing and was quite icy. It was Friday night and there was a lot of traffic heading up the mountain. We didn’t have chains and we were slipping and sliding a bit on our way down the mountain. There was no room to move: a wall of snow bordered each side of the narrow road. Suddenly Brian lost control. Luckily we were coming to a T-intersection and he somehow guided the vehicle in there and we did a complete 360. How we didn’t side swipe any cars is beyond me. The car settled, we looked at each other and Brian said, as calm as you like, ‘Better put the chains on, I s’pose.’

Brian and Barb made sure I left with a bang. Their mate Johnny Action had a Winnebago mobile home. The four of us headed to San Francisco for a night on the town before I flew out. We managed to find a park near Fisherman’s Wharf, where we bought fresh fish, crab and wine. Next stop, under the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset, Johnny cooked up a brilliant meal. We sat at the table looking out the window and a good-sized wave curling around the southern pylon of the Golden Gate Bridge came crashing onto the breakwater, the setting sun making rainbows through the spray. Man, does that spell San Francisco or what?

Johnny drove back to the city and parked the ‘Winny’. We headed into town looking for nightlife. We found a bar with a great singer–guitarist. We joined in on the songs and got a bit Aussie tourist on the singer. I think he dug us; we certainly dug him. I did an Irish jig and I was the only sober one among us. We ended up in a poolroom at around two in the morning. Brian, Barb and Johnny were as full as ticks, and Brian got a bit out of hand. He took a shot on the pool table using the entire cue rack. Eight cues crashed onto the table and we were kicked out. We were walking back to the Winny when we passed a compressor, the machine used to operate jackhammers. Brian is a diesel fitter and he decided to start the compressor. It was very noisy. Next minute, in screeches a car marked ‘Security’. A tough guy in a security uniform got out, turned off the compressor and told Brian to get in the car.

Brian was legless. He told the guy to go fuck himself.

The guy yelled, ‘Get in the car!’

I was the sober one so I took decisive action. ‘I’ll take him home, mate.’

‘I’m putting him in the car.’

I’d had enough. I stepped up close and fronted him. ‘You and whose fuckin’ army?’ I grabbed Brian and Johnny and dragged them away.

The guy drove off, thank Christ. You can’t outbox bullets.

The drunks were ‘guts up for a coma’ sleeping off the night before, when someone started banging on the door. I opened the curtain and the sidewalks were full of people heading to work. It was peak hour and Johnny had parked the Winny in the middle of it. It would be like parking in George Street, Sydney. Johnny drove down to a surf beach and went back to sleep. I took a long walk up the beach to a headland and back along a typical San Francisco street with the typical wooden houses.

It was a great way to end my stay. We said our farewells and walked away quickly so that Brian and I couldn’t witness each other’s tears. Big boys don’t cry. ‘Come on, knock ’em off, knock off those tears, you bloody girls!’

Ebony’s puberty blues

In 1999 Ebony was attending the International School, the same high school that Zadia went to. When Zadia attended, it was located just across from Macquarie Centre, North Ryde. Zadia majored in Socialising and Community Interaction, and she spent most of her time researching at the Macquarie Centre and Macquarie University lunch venues, although she’d occasionally attend the school. It cost me a fortune in fees and she left when she was seventeen.

When Ebony started there she was a sweet, dedicated thirteen-year-old. She loved the school and was most upset when it went into liquidation. We tried to save it, but to no avail. Ebony then attended Carlingford in 2000, when she was fourteen going on fifteen. She walked into Carlingford High School and a transformation came upon her like something out of a superhero movie. She went from a sweet teenager to ‘Hey, I’m a teenager, sweet!’ Bang, bang, bang, suddenly she had the Italian curves of Sophia Loren. Then, ‘I’ve never had a cigarette before, wouldn’t mind a drink, what does marijuana do to you again?’ Three months later, ‘Hey Mum, I wanna live with my dad, it’s about time we got to really know each other.’ There was no great animosity happening between Rosa and Ebony, just the usual traumas between mother and pubescent daughter.

I was really taken aback by this. Of course I wanted her to live with me, but at the same time I had to respect what Rosa wanted, which was for Ebony to stay put. After all, she’d done all the hard work and sacrifice to get Ebony this far, so for her it was a slap in the face. Ebony was just your typical selfish teenager who didn’t understand how upsetting it was for her mother. ‘I just want time with my dad, what’s the problem?’

I’m sure she felt the grass would be greener and life would be more exciting with her lenient father. I sat her down and said, ‘This is not going to be a picnic. During the week you do schoolwork, no socialising. Weekends you can go have fun as long as you don’t get out of control. Sunday night is at home, fresh for the new week.’

She was okay during the week, although sometimes she’d take her time getting home after school. I don’t smoke, but when I was fourteen I did. I just told her how crazy it was and asked her to please quit, which fell on deaf ears. She found a boyfriend and I didn’t like him, but that’s not unusual. What was unacceptable was that he introduced her to weed and alcohol. I found out about it, the shit hit the fan and we had a family conference with Rosa. We said we’d give it one more go, but if she failed she’d have to go home to her mother. Unfortunately Ebs had fallen in with the wrong crowd and inevitably, she failed. I really wanted it to work, because it gave me a chance to make up a little for not being there in the beginning. It lasted about eight months and we got along very well. We had a lot of beautiful moments; it was just a shame her social life got in the way. It connected us with a stronger thread, which has since turned into a rope, and we got to know each other at a deeper level. Other chances for connectedness were still to come.

It also woke her up. She applied herself, finished high school and did very well. She now has two kids and a successful marriage, and they live in their own house. She does uni by correspondence and she gets shirty if she doesn’t get high distinctions. I couldn’t be more proud of her.

McLeod’s Daughters

I was cast as one of the leads in a new drama, McLeod’s Daughters, which first went to air in 2001. There were about eight main cast members, and I was playing opposite Sonia Todd and Rachel Carpani. They were a great mob to work for. Filming all took place on actual farms in Gawler, just outside of Adelaide, which was very pleasant for a country boy. I averaged about three days a fortnight, six months per year for five years, between 2000 and 2005. Some episodes I’d be written up; others I’d hardly be in. My life at home wasn’t that jolly during this period, so I enjoyed the escape to Gawler. Also, it paid well and regularly. I liked that.

The first two years the scripts were great. We were the number-one show picking up Logies. Like most shows, it went slowly downhill and I think I got out at the right time. I got very tired of walking out of the house to my ute and Meg (Sonia Todd) racing out after me: ‘Forgot your lunchbox, Terry, by the way.’

I liked the town, which was close enough to the city and the Barossa Valley, so I usually found something to do on layover days.

When I first got there I went to a cafe and the owner recognised me.

‘Anyone ever told you that you look like John Jarratt?’

‘All the time, but he’s shorter, fatter and older than me.’

‘Yeah, true!’

A few weeks later I went back.

‘C’mon, you are John Jarratt.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘But the other week you said you weren’t.’

‘I’ve never been here in my life. I’ve just turned up to do McLeod’s Daughters. Nice town.’

The guy was really confused.

Island house number four

By the end of 2000 I’d extended the mortgage on my house at Tennis Wharf and I’d started the demolition stage, ready for the rebuild. Having a regular job made it easier for me to talk with my bank. The house was on a rare flat block just above Tennis Wharf. Tennis is a great spot, facing north, with a nice little beach stretching back to an expansive park bordered by beautiful gum trees that I helped plant back in 1980. We parked our boats on a floating pontoon, connected to the ferry wharf.

The house consisted of a small deck and a living area at the front, a kitchen on the side, and behind that a bathroom and toilet. On the other side was the main bedroom and two poky bedrooms. I demolished the front deck and replaced it with a big one. After removing the main bedroom and the kitchen I made one big open room combining living, dining and kitchen. I renovated the bathroom and made the two poky rooms into one bedroom. I built a massive rumpus room. I put a stairway on one side of the main room and built another storey. There were two big bedrooms and an ensuite at the back, and a massive tiled deck over the main room at the front. I lived there while slowly rebuilding the house over a couple of years.

Jackson

I had been in another relationship for a few years, but my life was not good on the home front and into this, on 2 August 2001, a miracle arrived: Jackson joined the Jarratt tribe. He was extremely good-looking. If you hold our two baby photos together, it’s hard to tell the difference. Like Charlie, Jackson’s existence was supposed to be impossible. I’m very pleased that I seem to have the ability to make the impossible possible, otherwise I’d only be the father of two girls.

I like to think that I have a path and a purpose. I’ve taken this road because I’m meant to bring my amazing children into being. I think that’s right, although I dare say a lot of you readers would think, What a lot of bullshit! Well, that’s your reality and you are most entitled to it.

We had a three-month break from McLeod’s at the end of May 2002, which I wanted to spend trying to complete the house. I employed my brother Baz, who at forty-four was now an all-round builder: he could build anything out of anything.

I was two weeks into the upstairs construction when I came off my BMW 1200 motorbike. I was travelling up Pittwater Road on my way to see Ebony in Epping. A clown in a Commodore station wagon had stopped across three lanes trying to turn right. He didn’t see me.

Wayne Gardner couldn’t have got out of this. I hit the brakes, thinking, I’m gonna T-bone and go flying through the air. Remember what the old man said: drop the bike.

I dropped the bike, and as I was heading for the road I thought, This is gonna hurt. Ahhh, yep, that hurts. I went skidding along the road at 80 k’s. I’m too old for this shit.

The bike caught up to me and the spinning back wheel hit my arm and broke my elbow and wrist. I slammed into the gutter with my bike. Both knees and my left elbow were gravel-rashed. A small crowd had assembled. I got up and started walking around.

The guy from the Commodore came over to me. ‘It’s all my fault.’

‘My fuckin’ oath it is.’

‘I’m insured, I’ll pay for everything.’

‘My fuckin’ oath you will.’

A person from the crowd cut in. ‘You’re in shock.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m fuckin’ angry.’

‘I’ll call an ambulance.’

‘No thanks, my brother will pick me up.’

While I was waiting, the cops turned up. My right arm was floating around like a limp sausage and the stupid copper said, ‘Sign here.’

It took three months for my arm to heal. I stood around watching Barry and his workmate build the house. Bloody frustrating. As soon as I could use my arm I was back at McLeod’s. Such is life.

Since I’d extended Rosa’s mountain home in 1997, there had been an easing of tension between us and we’d become quite friendly in a platonic way. More platonic for her than me, I must admit. She was still the lost love of my life; I couldn’t get over her. She rang and asked if I knew someone who could put a kitchen together quite cheaply with a bit of style. I knew just the right person. Nikos did the job for her very well. He also wooed her. I’ve got a lot of time for Nikos. On the one hand, it was fine; on the other, my primitive side wanted to kill him. God love him.

It was strange, but even though I was jealous, I had to keep Rosa in my life. Ebony was seventeen so I didn’t have to pick her up as often, and the older she got, the less I’d see Rosa. I invited Rosa and Nikos to the island one day. They had lunch at my home and then we went up to our old house for afternoon tea with our friend Eamon, who’d bought the house from us. I don’t know why I put myself through that. I wanted to see Rosa and I wanted my friendship with Nikos. It was bloody hard to watch them hold hands.

Heading north

In late 2002, I got a gig in north-east Tasmania, a little half-hour SBS drama called Albert’s Chook Tractor, set on a farm. I played a farmer whose wife had died and he and his simple son try to get on with life. The son invents a chook tractor, a mobile chicken pen you shift around to fertilise the field. It was a quaint little drama set in a glorious valley dominated by Mount Ben Lomond. I managed to catch up with my mates Will and Sharon. I also worked with Justine Saunders again. I love her and her talent; she was like a sister to me.

I was taking a bushwalk near Mount Ben Lomond when Charlie rang me from Queensland. He was with William and Noni in Mount Tamborine.

‘Hi, Dad, we’re in Mount Tamborine and guess what?’

‘What?’

‘We’ve bought a house and we’re moving up here!’

That was the first I’d heard of it. Will was nine and Charlie was thirteen. They were going to be 1000 k’s away. I was totally thrown; I hadn’t been consulted. I thought about it for a while and there was only one solution: I had to move much closer to them. I went back to my favourite place on the planet and put a ‘For sale’ sign up on the fourth house I’d built on the island. Like a few of them, I really wanted to stay in this one.

I put the Tennis Wharf house on the market in early 2003. It sold quickly and I actually made a profit, for a change. I wanted to get some acres this time, so I started looking inland from the Gold Coast, and then I drove south into the Tweed Valley. I took the exit off the freeway to Murwillumbah, and when I got to the top of the flyover I had to pull over. The view up the Tweed past the cane fields to Mount Warning surrounded by the Border Ranges is one of the most majestic on the planet.

I found a beautiful old 1880s Federation weatherboard farm cottage on 1.5 acres just north of Murwillumbah. It was a bit 1960s and I had to tear a lot of gyprock away to reveal the original V boards underneath, and rip up the carpet to give light to the hidden hoop pine floorboards. I covered the walls in fresh paint and we moved in. All the while I was flying backwards and forwards to Adelaide to drag myself through endless episodes of McLeod’s Daughters.

Riley

On 18 July my sixth and final angel arrived. Riley was a big angel at 9 pounds. He’s still tall, the same height as his brother Jackson, who’s two years his senior. Jackson was the unexpected miracle but Riley was planned. Even though five kids were more than enough for me, I don’t like the idea of an only child. It’s turned out brilliantly: they are the best of mates, as are my older boys Charlie, now twenty-seven, and Will, twenty-one, who share a flat in Melbourne.

Charlie was fifteen in 2003 and Will was nine. Charlie was still a wild boy, but he took a lot of energy out on his mountain bike. As with all Charlie’s interests, he became obsessed, and he had the best bike you could buy; he spent his savings on it. One day he wanted me to watch him come down this god-awful hill on a narrow dirt track surrounded by rocks and trees. He was showing off and as he was belting down at a death-defying pace, he went off the path and slammed into a tree.

I thought it had killed him; he’s a big guy and he hit it very hard. He ended up with a bruised chest and shoulder. He got up. He was fine, tough bugger. He was rolling his shoulder when he noticed he’d snapped the titanium forks of his bike. He immediately lost it and started crying. He was lamenting that he’d never be able to afford to replace them. Of course I had to say I’d buy new ones for him.

Will was still a star on the soccer field. Charlie is a solid 6 foot 1 version of my father; Will’s more like I was, long and skinny, but he’s a tough, wiry bugger who doesn’t take a backward step on the field.

At this stage they were both seeing plenty of Jackson and Riley. It was good they formed a connection from when their little brothers were babies.

I had Charlie and Will for a week during the September holidays in 2003. I thought it’d be good to go to McLeod’s by hire car. I had to work on the following Thursday and Friday, so we left on the Saturday before and took four days to travel to Adelaide. It was a nightmare. Charlie spent his youth annoying the daylights out of William until Will lost it. Charlie loved it when Will went berko, he’d laugh out loud. Because Will was much smaller, he’d attack Charlie with rocks and sticks, which was even more satisfying for Charlie.

Their arguing was driving me crazy, so, without a word, I exited the highway and headed into the town of Junee. They asked where we were going but I wouldn’t answer. I pulled up outside a hardware store, got out and told them to stay in the car. I came back with the most expensive industrial earmuffs you can buy. I sat in the car, put them on and drove off. It worked a treat: when they argued I could hardly hear them. Charlie quickly realised what I was up to and went all-out to drive Will nuts. It worked. I was still oblivious to the argument when suddenly Will lurched from the back seat into Charlie’s front seat and had him by the throat, screaming like a banshee. He nearly caused me to have an accident.

When they weren’t arguing they were bored shitless. They couldn’t give a toss about the scenery or the quaint towns. It was the trip from hell.

Tarantino

In mid-October 2003 I was driving home through the cane fields near Murwillumbah from yet another stint on McLeod’s when my mobile rang. It was my agent.

‘You’re not going to believe this. Tarantino got off the plane this afternoon and said, “I wanna meet John Jarratt, he’s my favourite Australian actor.” He wants you to go to the Sydney premier of Kill Bill tonight.’

‘What? That sounds bizarre, you’re pulling my leg.’

‘Nup, that’s apparently what he said.’

‘Well, it’s 6 p.m. I’m in northern New South Wales, I can’t make it.’

I didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe he said that about lots of Australian actors, like Russell or Cate.

I got home and the phone rang again.

‘Tarantino is very disappointed. He was wondering if you’d like to have a drink with him tomorrow night in Sydney.’

Wait a minute, I’ll just check my diary – no, sorry, I’ve got dinner with George Clooney at the Opera House.

Tarantino is one of my favourite directors. Pulp Fiction is one the most innovative, refreshing movies I’ve ever seen. In one fell sweep he created his own genre; I call it Quentinsential. He takes something from every movie that’s ever influenced him and scatters it through his films with the dexterity of a master chef infusing flavours through an incredible dish. His films are unique and yet strangely traditional at the same time. He can pull stuff out of his mind from all the thousands of films he’s seen. They’re in Technicolor in his skull.

I met Quentin in the lobby of his Sydney hotel. Being a fan, I was expecting this larger-than-life character, but he was charming and a little bit shy. I was charming right back at him and pretending to be calm, but inside I was going, Fucking hell, I’m walking down to a private space to have a chat with Quentin fucking Tarantino! What’s a coalminer’s son doing with Tarantino? If I’d stayed in Wongawilli would I have ended up in the mines like my cousins Steve and Tony?’ but then I thought, Maybe Quentin’s saying to himself, ‘What’s a boy from a video shop doing in Sydney with views of the Opera House talking to John fucking Jarratt who did Picnic at Hanging Rock when I was ten?’ Maybe not, he probably got over that after working with John Travolta and Samuel L Jackson.

We sat down and had a drink together and he started asking questions, then the animated Tarantino arrived.

‘How did you do the crane shot in Next of Kin? How did they get it into the pick-up? How did they tongue it off the crane and into the pick-up without cutting?’

And it went on. I couldn’t believe how many Aussie films he’d seen. They’ve had a tremendous influence on him. We can make an action film for $1 million and make it look like $30 million, that is what we’re good at.

He said he’d pencil me in to one of his films, and eight years later he did. I would love it if Quentin came to Australia and made his Quentinsential Aussie film. That would be sensational.

Goodbye, old man

I was standing in Jackson’s room on the phone to the old man, telling him how exciting it was to have a one-on-one with the great Tarantino. He didn’t know who I was talking about; the only director he knew was Cecil B De Mille. He asked me what I was doing, I asked him what he was doing, he asked me if I was all right for money, I said I was, he said ‘Bye for now’ and hung up. Always the same conversation, always the creature of habit. I still remember his phone number, because every time you rang he’d reel it off before saying ‘Bruce Jarratt speaking’.

That was my last conversation with my dad, he died two weeks later. He had dinner, said to Mum, ‘I’ll go get me pyjamas on, clean me teeth and go to bunkyboo.’ He went into his room, pulled his pyjama pants on, had a massive heart attack and left life.

The phone rang and Mum was on the other end. Mum was in the early stages of dementia and Dad had reverted from the cared-for to the carer. Mum would forget to turn off a pot or overrun a bath; Dad kept an eye on her and it actually made him stronger. We thought he’d last much longer than he did; he was seventy-eight. Mum was very calm and collected on the phone. She was protecting her little boy: it just kicks in automatically. I fell to bits, I needed Mummy and she was there for me. I’m a sook when it comes to this sort of thing. If Rosa goes before me and I have to break it to my girls, I doubt very much that I’d have anywhere near my mother’s strength. I’m ashamed to say, they’d probably have to hold me up.

It’s a strange thing, losing your dad. I miss him terribly. He was larger than life; you always knew when he was there. I miss his strength, his never-say-die attitude (‘A Jarratt never gives up’). He was angry at times, he yelled sometimes, he lost it sometimes and said the wrong thing. But he got over it quickly, he never brooded or refused to talk or hung onto things. Overall, he never looked back, he had few regrets and he loved life. He was a paradox. He could be a selfish bastard, but he was a happy selfish bastard. He was also generous – as he would say, he’d give you his arsehole and shit through his ribs. He didn’t give a fuck what others thought of him and he never expected anything from anybody. But most of all, he loved us in depth and he loved Mum with an extraordinariness that words haven’t been invented to describe it. He would have died for us in a nanosecond.

There were a lot of people at his funeral. The families, of course, old friends and new. Personally, what touched me most was my lifelong Townsville mates turning up – Nial, Sally, Max, Herb and Rubin. All except Rub had come down from Queensland. Rubin reminisced about dropping the ball and losing the grand final and Dad calling him Buckets Doube. ‘At least I won’t be called Buckets any more.’

‘Is that right, Buckets?’ we all chorused.

My brother Brian did the eulogy. Man, it was heart-warming, funny, moving. I can’t believe he wrote such a masterful speech. I’d like to say it was a consummate performance, but it wasn’t a performance. It was an encapsulation of Brian’s truth, spoken with guts and conviction.

Dad’s favourite song was ‘Old Man River’. He had a deep, rich, powerful baritone. I opened my mouth to sing and I could immediately hear him singing it in my head. I’ve got a good voice, but I sounded like someone had trodden on a mouse. I blew it.

The coffin was covered in flowers. Nothing could be more ridiculous than putting pretty flowers on Bruce’s coffin. It needed to be an engine block and a bag of cement. The coffin went behind the curtains. Bye, Bruce.