I was the little sister ... and James and Stevie were the best big brothers a girl could have. As I write this, in spite of everything that has happened in our lives, I think of them and I smile.
That says it all.
The love my brothers and I and our mother shared growing up, before the rot set in, and the wonderful things we did together as kids in Woolloomooloo sustain me to this day.
Memories.
James being father, mother, brother and protector to me and Steve when Mum was dying of cancer and our dad had disappeared again or turned up at the doorstep drunk. James using me instead of a barbell to build up his muscles for footy; he would pick me up by the neck and ankle and lift me high above his head again and again. James? How to describe him? Determined, focused, strong-willed, successful ... and a marshmallow inside.
Stephen is sensitive and spiritual and humble at the same time as being the tough fighter and criminal lawyer. As a boy he was naughty and adventurous, a playful kitten of a kid who was always playing tricks on us. James and Steve could sing. They performed for Mum and me acapella renditions of hymns and folk songs like ‘Kumbaya’. Not content with just singing, Steve sometimes made trumpet noises by blowing out through his lipsand when he started working out he could flex his pecs to the beat of the song. which was often ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ to annoy Roosters fan James. He could recite poetry, pages and pages of it committed to memory. He once taped a Winston Churchill speech, learned it, and delivered it word for word – and inflection – perfect. Mum was so pround of him, as she was all of us. She called us her cherubs.
Stephen and I, like all siblings, used to get stuck into each other. Then he wasn’t so much a kitten as a wildcat. I always say he took up boxing so he could stand a chance against me. I know why he, in years later, he was called Sunshine: because right from when he was a little boy he would give me a hug or tell me a joke and his wonderful spirit would be like a shaft of bright sunlight piercing the clouds on a rainy day.
When I remember Stephen, I am a little girl again and I am hearing the phone ringing, and Mum picks it up and I overhear how Stevie has fallen off a wall, been run over by a car when he was riding his billycart on busy Parramatta Road, gotten into a fight and broken his nose or wrist or crashed his bike. Or that James has gotten third-degree burns by sunbaking too long at the beach, as he was some day or got into some other strife.
When Steve was little, he smashed his bicycle, and Mum saved to have it repaired. We all travelled from Camperdown to the bike shop at Newtown to pick it up. Stevie asked Mum if he could ride it home. He was about twelve. Mum reluctantly gave in to him. She and I were sitting on the bus on our way home when an ambulance sped by in the opposite direction with its siren blaring. Mum, being the kind and caring person that she was, said to me, ‘Oh dear, some poor family is going to be hearing some bad news tonight.’ When we arrived home a policeman was standing at our door. Yes, the ambulance we’d seen was rushing to collect Steve and take him to hospital. He’d come off his new bike.
Mum was a lady – a lady of integrity, kindness and strength, who stood up to some terrible problems with bravery and a smile. She was the glue in our family and although we were poor and had an absent father she worked hard in spite of her illness to ensure that we wanted for nothing and grew up to be good people. She was strict. One night when she had to give James a ticking-off she climbed up on a chair to be level-pegging with him and the chair started to creak and wobble and we all started giggling.
When Mum was dying of cancer and in terrible pain she had no support. There was no community nurse. She had twenty-eight courses of chemotherapy.
She was so sick at the end. She nearly died many times, but her need to care for us kept her fighting her cancer longer than she had any right to. I remember her lying in her hospital bed saying to me, ‘Now, Ali, do you have your school uniform for tomorrow ... your pocket money?’
Mum determinedly took us on outings. I can close my eyes and see us all, Mum, James, Stephen and me, at Bronte pool. I’m a sickly, thin kid clinging to James’s back and holding my breath for dear life and he’s being a dolphin and diving deep down under the water. Steve has climbed to the top of the rocks overlooking the pool and is about to jump 3 metres into shallow water. Mum is yelling at him, ‘STEPHEN, GET DOWN OFF THAT ROCK! RIGHT NOW!’
The rot that I was referring to earlier set in when Mum’s illness and subsequent death meant that I had to live with relatives and friends for extended periods. It was then when, from the age of ten until I was fourteen, I was sexually and violently abused by a number of people. I suffered this abuse in silence, because one of the people who was abusing me threatened my life, and told me that I’d better not tell my mother on him because she was sick and the trauma would kill her. I did not want Mum to die so I said nothing. Nor did I tell James and Stephen because I feared that my attacker would make good on his threat to kill them too. I had seen his guns
I was traumatised and terrified and so very ashamed. I was angry and nasty because I felt dirty and unworthy. My brothers tried to wrap me in their love but because of my deadly secret I pushed them away. I couldn’t tell them the truth. It all got too much so I took flight. I moved away to protect them and in doing that I lost them as well for a long time. I lost in every way and that’s a cruel irony. In those nomad years after I was abused I was taken in by some wonderful people and I’d like to thank those who rallied to support me after Mum passed away and while I was finishing school and moving in and out of home. I thank Mrs T. I thank Lyn Judd, who was a single mother with five children to care for, and her daughter Ricci, who took me under their wing. Lorraine McDonald made me feel as though I was one of her own. Alex ‘Peacock’ Wymarra, Mrs Swan, Mrs Harrison, and Evelyn Henson and Jenny Fosterwho were my friends and who I hope one day will be again. I’ll always be grateful for these people’s love and support at such a difficult time.
James couldn’t stand our dad and always referred to him as ‘Steve’s father’. So in 1997 when ‘Steve’s father’ died, James invited me for a coffee to talk about Dad’s passing. He told me he felt that it was time Stephen, he and I went to Mum’s grave and presented ourselves to her and said, ‘Mum, this is how your children are today.’
That was the catalyst for me to change my life.
I thought about James’s invitation and knew that I wasn’t fit to join my brothers before my mother until I had faced my demons and brought the man who had molested me and threatened me to justice. Until I did that I could have no self-respect, and would remain ashamed, hurt and angry. I had to be accountable for myself and do what I had told many of the young people whom I coulcil as a child care worker to do. I told James and Stephen what had happened to me all those years ago and the reasons why we had drifted apart. They, with my partner Genevieve, stood beside me, each holding my hand, and we hauled that person into court and he admitted his guilt and I received a large compensation payout. James made sure I had good legal representation, and Stephen prepared me for the rigours of the courtroom. I remember him telling me, ‘Ali, you’re a legend, baby. Hold your head up high. You have nothing to be ashamed of.’
In turn, I was there for Stephen when his life got very messy. This great sportsman became a victim of alcoholism. We came to confide in each other, make each other laugh through hard times. Just before he entered the clinic to finally successfully deal with his disease in 2002 I gave him a book, Until Today by Iyanla Vanzant, about spiritual growth and inner peace, and he read it and kept it by his side. It made me so happy to see him recovered, and to rejoice with him when he found love and happiness with his partner Hilary and her daughters.
Because I faced my demons, I have been able to live a good life. I became a child advocate with Barnado Australia as a residential care worker, a youth worker on the streets and an advocate for children’s rights and children at risk. For the last decade I have been Health and Education Officer with the New South Wales Department of Health, educating injecting drug users. I was able to connect again with James and Stephen and to open myself to accept the love of my partner, Genevieve, and her beautiful family. I am loved and I love. Without my brothers, and the courage I drew from Mum’s example, I don’t know that any of this could have happened.
There are many messages in this book, as James and Stephen tell the stories of their lives; all the joys and sadnesses, triumphs and craziness and tragedy. But, to me, the main messages are that if we are not making every moment count during our short time on this planet we are cheating ourselves, and that nothing is more important than loving and letting those whom we love know that we do.