DOWN ON THE FARM

DOWN ON THE FARM.

After years of steadfast persistence the old girl actually landed the wealthy farmer she always dreamed of finding.  The wedding ceremony and pissup that followed took place on the front lawn of our housing trust duplex, to the tearful and squawking delight of hysterical, love starved females.   The honeymoon if you can call it that was a family affair. It took the form of a house moving shitfight from our house in Elizabeth to a small, rural township called Owen, on the dusty wheatbelt of the Adelaide plains.  It was the peak of the summer and our new family home turned out to be a large family caravan parked in a stinking hot wheatshed in very close proximity to noisy pig pens.  My mother complained the whole time about the flies and other discomforts, but I didn’t mind it at all because everything was new and I had a new world to explore.  My newly acquired stepfather was named Bryant. He was a quiet and unassuming country gentleman and it staggered my imagination how this easy going and likable fellow could be attracted to an emotional time bomb like my mother.  Who gives a rats ass why they were together.  I was receiving the spoils of the good life and that was all that mattered to me.  From the limited options of skid row I was suddenly living in a world of wealth, and increased opportunity. Bryant was still a virgin when he got married at the age of forty and this became public knowledge at the wedding reception thanks to my mothers tactless tongue.  He is such a good natured country bumpkin that he just shrugged it off.  His cheeks were illuminated to a slightly more red and flustered tone than usual as he said, “Awe gee! dear, ... you don’t have to tell everyone”.  With little chance that Bryant and my mother would be bringing any children into the world I suppose he saw us kids as his new family.  To win our affections a bounty of gifts and services were forthcoming which made him a very agreeable new daddy indeed.  I was the proud owner of a Honda trail bike at the age of sixteen which only would have happened in my dreams a short time earlier.  I had the use of Bryant’s big old Chrysler right up until I got my full licence then he financed a two tone purple and white FC Holden for me.  Independent mobility means everything when you are a testosterone charged hoon and the acquisition of my vehicles through Bryant brought a brand of gratitude, unlike any I had ever felt for my mother. This fine upstanding citizen whom I had now come to address as 'Dad' was an Elder of the local Anglican parish.  His colonial ancestors had helped to settle the wheatbelt and the family name is engraved in a plaque on the cornerstone of the tiny country steeple.  To the best of my knowledge there has never been any form of scandal or mischief on the  family tree and no skeletons lurk in their well kept farmhouse closets.  Being righteous and God fearing people Bryant’s family took acception to the fact he had married a divorced woman and someone from out of the district.  Because of his decision to marry my old lady he was promptly disinherited from the family riches by his frail and rickety old father.  Most of the clan didn’t hesitate in expressing their views about his choice of wives and very rarely did any of them come to visit.  Only when Bryant’s miserable, cow poke old father moseyed on to the big grazing pasture in the sky did the family agree to contest the will.  It was done begrudgingly but a new will was eventually drawn up and Bryant was included.  Then it turned into a feeding frenzy of pure greed as his siblings pecked and squabbled over petty differences in what they had received.  These seemingly respectable folk worked the farm tirelessly and went to church without fail each Sunday. They wouldn’t ever think of trying to cheat the tax man and swear words were never heard around women.  It’s quite unthinkable that any of them would invoke the rage of ‘The Almighty’ by having a little root before they were married and that’s why my middle age stepfather had never got his rocks off.  Bryant’s brothers and sisters ranged in age from nineteen to thirty four.  It was the done thing in these parts for the younger siblings to hold off on their marriage plans until the oldest boy had tied the knot, so the announcement of the forthcoming wedding came as a welcomed relief.  After Bryant and my mother got hitched there were marriages left, right and center as the family suddenly expanded across the wheatbelt.  Amid the hectic harvest season work schedule the brothers of which there were three all chipped in to build new farm houses around the thousand acre property.  As it happened the building materials were purchased in bulk consignments which left little room for individual taste.  By the time construction was complete there were three new buildings dotted on the landscape which were virtually the same in every way.  Even down to the seeds that were dropped into newly hoed flowerbeds, the homesteads were identical in shape and character.  To these simple, land dwelling animals it would seem that style takes a well measured second place to practicality and function.

A couple of years before we left Elizabeth Lesley started dating a guy called Corrie who was the son of Dutch immigrants and a friend of our older brother.  She was only fourteen and still at school and he was about eighteen and working for an exclusive car firm in Adelaide.  They were an inseparable item from the word go and it was assumed by all that they would eventually tie the knot. In the early stages of their relationship my mother didn’t trust Corrie to take Lesley out alone so I got to tag along as their chaperone.  I was still on my good behavior bond, so their weekend dates got me out of the house a lot more than my normal quota. Every Saturday night we used to go to the Elizabeth Drive-in movies in Corrie’s souped up EH Holden.  I knew the dirty bastard wanted to hop in the back seat with my sis the moment the car was hooked up to the speaker so there was always room for negotiation.  Corrie was a tight arse when it came to bargaining but I would generally depart from the car with enough cash for a Chiko roll, some chips and a bottle of Coke.  In a surprise move Lesley and Corrie broke it off not long after we moved out to the farm.  I suspect his increased fuel bill had something to do with it, but whatever the case she was alone and available.  David is Bryant’s younger brother by about ten years and they are only separated in looks, dress and character by the years between them.  I don’t know if it was true love or weather they just wanted to get all of the marriages out of the way but David and Lesley teamed up and took the plunge along with the others.  That made my recently appointed step uncle my brother in law at the same time.  It also made my, ... ‘Oh!, forget it.

My mothers psychological condition improved slightly from what it had been.  With the much awaited shedding of financial burdens she went into a reasonably consistent mode of motherly forbearing.  She was able to keep up her little act most of the time but rumblings in the community would soon cause the demons to surface.  Some circulating rumor among the locals or something one of Bryant’s family had said would trigger her wrath and that was it.  Exploding in a firestorm of emotional indulgence her true self would come screaming onto the scene as my ideal new mother was cast to the sidelines.  By this stage in the game her fits of rage were less frequently directed at me because I had outgrown her by about a foot.  I was no longer the sort of smart mouthed teenager a violent mother would want to mess with and I let her know it whenever we were nose to nose in a clash.

I may be an environmental activist these days but before I had heard about 'The Green House Effect' or 'Photo-chemical smog' the smell of motorbike fumes in a pack formation used to give me a hard on.  My best mates from among the local farmboys were ‘Robert Wilson’ and ‘Bob Singleton’.  They had trail bikes as well and our every spare minute was spent tearing up the pot hole ridden tracks separating our farms.  Other young riders would come screaming out of driveways to join us as we passed and it was not unusual to find ourselves scrambling in a pack of ten or fifteen bikes.  By sundown on most Friday nights some dusty old crossroad among the pastures would serve as our pre-party meeting ground.  Classic vintage saloons and souped up vans, utes and trucks would form a circle around the bikes and we’d plan our fun seeking convoy.  Country dances, drive in movies and rowdy, barnyard piss ups were our normal weekend destinations and scoring that first little virginity deleting root was our all consuming mission. Myself and the two Robert’s were the most Alpha loverboys among the crew and most of the other blokes would wait for us to make the first move before they started chatting up the farmgirls.  We’d arrive at country dances well after the band had started and it would always be the same dreary scene with shy country bumpkins trying to work up the courage to say hello to a member of the opposite sex.  The blokes would be lined up around the walls of the institute buildings shuffling their feet and feeling inadequate, while the farm girls sat all prim and proper in floral dresses twiddling their thumbs and waiting.  The thunderous noise of parking trailbikes and V8 engines would announce our arrival and as we entered the building you could taste the anticipation in the air.  Led by myself and the two Robert’s the seated wall flowers would be politely escorted from their perches to the dancefloor.  The more spirited girls among them were simply picked up by strong young arms and plonked in front of the high, town hall stage.  Most of the visiting cabaret bands who played the rural dance circuit would take this as a signal to present their most up tempo tunes.  Songs like, ... 'Rockin Robin’... ‘Twist  and Shout’ and  ... ‘The Hippy, Hippy Shake’.

 I lost my virginity with Felicity Andrews in a stubble paddock, stretched out on the engine cover of a Massey Ferguson harvester.  It was a humid and electrical night, in the school holidays, under a crescent moon.  The crickets were chirping incessantly and swarming mosquitoes were biting my naked arse.  Across the stubble paddocks we could see the lights of Owen and I could just make out  what the band was playing in the front bar of the pub.  It was My Dingalingby, ...‘Chuck Berry’. It might sound too romantic to be true but Felicity was the high school beauty Queen and I was the new kid in town.  Her ex-boyfriend Snake was a nasty piece of work who couldn’t accept the fact she didn’t want to go out with him anymore.  Snake had been kicked out of high school because of his violent behavior and he was forever in trouble with the law.  In a sinister and menacing way he used to ride his motorbike around the grounds of the school during lunchtime periods in the hope of seeing Felicity.  Snake chose a hot and sticky Adelaide plains night to confront us as we were walking arm in arm at the high school continental.  This is a chummy little slice of country life that is held in the grounds of the school every summer.  There were rides for the kiddies and a big Ferris wheel.  Hot dogs, fairy floss and sweet, dripping toffee apples in kids faces.  The local community enjoying some good old fashioned family fun at a much loved yearly event.  I heard my name being called out with an unmistakable sense of urgency and it was a voice that was not known to me, ...“Steve, ... it’s Snake and he’s got a bottle”. I sensed an incoming movement and in the corner of my eye I saw the bottle coming down towards my head.  Instinctively I jabbed my right elbow backwards and caught the nose of my jealous attacker square on.  Felicity screamed and in the confusion of the moment she spilt a chocolate milkshake all over her lovely white party frock.  Snake was down and bleeding.  Felicity’s face looked remarkably similar to that of Laura Dern in Blue velvet as her ex-boyfriend hit the dust in a pathetic mess.  Chocolate milk had saturated her dress and it became increasingly transparent under the bright fairy lights.  A circle of respectable townsfolk was instantly formed around the blood stained youth on the ground and they started shouting, ...“Finnish the mongrel off” ... and, ... “Give the bastard what he deserves”.Snake was the town bully and the blood lusting parents who had formed the circle were sick of him throwing his weight around with their kids.  This bloke was not your average redneck tough guy.  He was more like the psychopathic street fighters I had encountered back in Elizabeth.  He came scrambling back into the circle clutching at peoples collars and shirt sleeves until he was face to face with me and throwing punches.  I went in matching him blow for blow until I had him back on his miserable arse where he belonged.  The crowd exploded with pure delight.  The circle had grown to twice its size by this stage and they were cheering me on with passion filled intensity.  I remember thinking, “It’s only seconds until the cops arrive”. But they were already there.  A local constable and his family were looking on from the back of the crowd and he didn’t lift a finger to stop the fight.  After the last innings I assumed the conflict was over and I was escorting my crying girlfriend away from the scene.  It was then that Snake decided to come back for some more impact therapy.  He tried to kick me from behind as we were leaving, but the heel of his boot got caught in a clump of cooch grass.  The heel came off and I copped four nails in the back of my thigh.  My best Levi’s were torn and blood was trickling down into an RM Williams riding boot I had purchased that very day.  I stopped being pissed off and became downright infuriated.  I obligingly provided the townsfolk with the spectacle they wanted to see and from that moment on the new kid in town was a hero.  I never found out the identity of the guy who gave me the warning about Snake but whoever it was,...

'Thanks  anyway  pal’

The popularity I attained by dropping the town bully opened up a whole new vista of experience for me.  My tendency to break into song at the drop of a hat had been the target of ridicule prior to the big fight, but from then on I was actually encouraged by the farmboys to sing their favourite tunes.  Mid seventy’s teenage anthems like,  ‘Whole Lotta Love’, ... ‘Black Night’...and ...‘American Woman’.  Happy Days had just become popular on the television and my little wheatbelt community was pretty much the same sort of thing, in real life.  Among my high school friends there were the Richie Cunningham’s, Ralph the Mouths and the Potsies. Guiding their kids along the righteous path there were happy and contented folk just like Richies parents.  The girls I pursued were squeaky clean and wholesome like the virginal sweethearts in Arnold’s Milk Bar and it goes without saying that I was the one most ‘Fonzie’ like among the group.  My trademark tribal greeting soon became the classic,‘Hey!’ and my little copycat routine turned into a local craze.  Even after I had moved to the city people used to make an embarrassing spectacle of themselves by going, ...  Hey! whenever they spotted me back in town.

Following in Snakes ill fated footsteps I was also expelled from high school for threatening to stick a forthcoming length of cane up the Headmasters rectum.  Felicity dropped me soon after this because high school dropouts in her eyes were far from the perfect man.  With nothing better to do but blaze the dusty trails or sit glued to the giggle box my mother became increasingly agitated by my presence around the house.  She would nag Bryant constantly to find me a job with one of his, ... “Snooty nosed friends” and eventually my poor, hen pecked stepfather scored me an apprenticeship at the local newspaper office.  In doing so he brought a temporary peace to the homestead and provided my first real glimpse of adult independence.  His generous handouts of pocket money had gone a long way in making me popular with the farmgirls but after I started my job at the printing office I became a serious contender on the country dating circuit.  The strongest memories I have of the printing office is the smell of country fresh bread filtering through from the bakehouse just next door.  That and the horrible sensation of accumulated dust under my fingernails from the ancient letter type racks.  It was my task apart from all of the filthy ink cleaning jobs to make up wedding invitations and formal notices.  I had to assemble tiny, lead letter blocks to form the words that would later be printed up.  It absolutely drove me to distraction and I used to count the moments until it was time to jump on my trailbike and escape.  I was spared a life of insufferable boredom and immovable ink stains when my employer suffered a fatal heart attack.  His newly widowed wife attempted to keep the business going but eventually she buckled under the strain and had a nervous breakdown. I was informed by the Editor that my apprenticeship would have to be terminated and it signaled the beginning of a new episode in my life.  I hung around on the dole for a few months just chasing the good times with my mates, but soon found I had more expensive tastes than welfare benefits can satisfy.  As usual dependable old Byrant came to the rescue and organised a job for me at the newly established Ingham’s chicken farm just up the track from our farm.  The job was an absolute bludge and I was given the official title of ‘Mortuary Officer’.

There were a number of guys working at the chicken farm who were travelers and mostly sought employment during the fruit picking season.  I got to know a couple of drifters among them called ‘Stan and Calypso’ and they helped to opened my eyes to the world that existed outside of my sleepy little town.  Calypso was into Yoga and Tai-chi and as he stood around swapping yarns with the lads he would stretch his entire leg out skyward.  Then he would swing his foot back around so that it could touch his ear.  All the time he would be standing upright and maintaining a steady dialogue with the fellas.  Stan and Calypso spoke of their travels to places like Indonesia and Malaysia and it was always fun to be around them as they were natural born comedians.  I took them to a couple of our country dances on the weekends, but they always seemed outside the pack.  I think this may have been because they were secretly scoffing at our small town ways.  I was the only one who really detected it and the other guys thought they were just harmless freaks who knew a shit load of great jokes. 

As the harvest season came around Stan and Calypso moved on to the Barossa valley to pick grapes and it wasn’t long after that before I became sick of  bucketing dead chickens.  I deliberately got to work late most mornings and slackened off on my duties until I was unemployed and free.  My time away from the workplace didn’t last long however and my next attempt at a meaningful occupation was arranged by my mother. She had been scanning the employment notices from the moment I got the sack.  One morning at the breakfast table she went into an unrestrained outburst of glee as she drew a circle around a vacant position.  The outside awning manufacturer in Adelaide was promptly phoned on my behalf and an interview was arranged.  The boss of the factory must have thought I was a clean living and responsible young fellow when I rolled up with my parents and I was given the job.   In her efforts to get me out of her life the old girl also placed a booking on some third rate accommodation not far from the factory.  After I was settled into my new low paying job and shit hole of a dwelling, Bryant and my mother hi-tailed it back to the farm in great spirits.  There was no doubt they were breathing a sigh of relief at my departure. In a mood of celebration Bryant said he would guarantee a bank loan for the new Suzuki road bike I had been drooling over which brought the final confirmation of my freedom.

 The single mens quarters my mother had so kindly dumped me in was inhabited by an assortment of working men, those out of work and looking and drunks who had given up trying.  The most intriguing aspect of the place was the fact my favorite Radio DJ ‘Leon Byner’ was living there as well.  He worked at 5KA the most popular Rock station in Adelaide at the time and I couldn’t understand how someone of his celebrity status had to live in such a squalid dump.  I thought that guys like him were loaded.  I made a mental note to scrub Radio DJ from my list of possible worldly achievements.  I had to give the greedy old bitch who ran the rooming house a third of my weekly wage and put coins into everything from the gas cooker and showers to the television.  I scanned the daily papers in search of slightly more comfortable digs that didn’t include rats and cockroaches, but most of the places I checked out were as bad if not worse than the one I was already in.  It wasn’t looking promising at all then Bingo!  Out of the blue I landed myself a room at one of the most exclusive addresses in Adelaide.  Ayers House is a stately bluestone manor situated directly opposite the Royal Adelaide Hospital on North Terrace.  It was the colonial homestead of ‘Sir Henry Ayers’ who is the bloke the whiteies named Uluhru after.   The caretakers of this impressive estate were called Jack and Kitty and they lived in what was the original servants quarters. The pair had advertised for a boarder in the local papers and I was the successful applicant out of six inquiries.  Ayers House was restored by the National Trust in a project set up by the Premier Don Dunstan in the mid seventy’s.  Soon after restoration the swanky old style mansion became a diplomatic party zone for visiting dignitaries like Princess Margaret and The London Philharmonic Orchestra. Whenever there were exclusive functions being held in their honor the front yard would look like a scene from James Bond.  There were Rolls Royces and horse drawn carriages lined up around the semi-circular driveway attended by servants dressed in all manor of formal attire. The big iron gates leading onto North Terrace served as a security checkpoint and there were generally enough guards on duty to start frigging a war. 

                                                                                                                    'So that’s where my hard earned tax dollar goes.  Mmmm! '...

 Jack and Kitty were classic examples of those poor misguided fools who are in awe of the Monarchy.  I couldn’t work it out because Kitty’s family origins were from a part of Ireland that are supposed to hate the Poms.  One time Premier Dunstan brought Princess Anne through Ayers House for a tour of inspection and Kitty got into a real fluster.  She made a pot of tea in her best china and went trotting down the stairs in the hope of meeting the Princess.   Her Royal Highness was being escorted from a white Rolls Royce convertible by the Premier as Kitty arrived with the tea.  In the excitement of the moment she tripped on the grass near the old stone fountain and the tray, teapot and biscuits went flying all over the lawn. The Princess and her entourage put their noses in the air and acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Jack helped Kitty to her feet and together they gathered up all the broken china.  To this day they probably still think that the Royals can do no wrong. ‘Poor Kitty’ Often on my arrival from the factory I would be stopped at the security barrier and my landlords had to vouch for me.  Once cleared I would park the motorbike under my third favourite peppercorn tree in the guests carpark providing there wasn’t some dignitaries limo in the way.  Still dressed in dirty work overalls I would then make my way through the bustle of officialdom up to my thirty dollar a week room.  My pad was at the top of some stairs which led down to the central ballroom of the mansion.  There were gigantic sparkling chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of the ballroom and I used to turn them on in the evenings as a favour to Jack.  I would take as long as possible to complete the task as I explored the grand palace and marveled at symbols of extreme affluence.  The rooms and hallways inside of Ayers House were decorated with antique furniture and paintings from the colonial period I was told were valued at more than three million dollars.  Possibly as an escape from the shackles of a deprived and uncultured past I used to fantasize that I was the filthy rich, talented and charming young gentleman of the manor every time I turned on the lights.  In extreme contrast to the world I was born to this place seemed alien and unattainable, yet inviting and alluring at the same time.  

How light and gay an Artists way

without a care from day to day

In heart and pocket light it seems

but always there are dreams.

To dream that fame will come some day

and love is never far away

and he wishes too for himself and you

that his dreams may all come true.

                                                 Strauss - Greville.

I can recall the precise moment when it dawned on me I had escaped the restrictions of childhood and become a man.  I was laying on my bed one day after work just staring up at the ancient plaster patterns on the ceiling.  I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular just chilling out to the radio when I heard the song, ‘Horror Movie’ by ‘Skyhooks’ for the very first time.  It captured the moment so completely because it was wild, untethered and slightly alarming.  I was moved in such a way that I became restless and agitated just laying around doing nothing.  That night I ventured into my first ever, big city nightclub and danced till the early hours like a stir crazy cowboy.  I found out the hard way that suave and sophisticated city girls are a different breed to farmgirls and they can empty a blokes wallet twice as fast.  The name of the club was ‘Countdown’ on Hindley street and the band that was playing were called ‘Kush’. The frontman was a guy by the name of ‘Jeff Duff’ and as part of his act he was dancing with a life sized, inflatable, sex doll.  This wouldn’t have seemed too strange in itself but the blow up doll had blood filled syringes injected all over it’s body. I awed at the outrageous spectacle under the flashing strobe lights as he filled the room with his immaculate operatic voice.

That smoky bar was a million galaxies away from country dances at the institute hall and it caused the first wing flutters of the night owl I later became.More than being mere landlords Jack and Kitty were like the caring and dutiful parents I never had.  They even used to provide glasses of beer with the evening meals and Kitty would bring steaming cups of hot chocolate into my room before I went to sleep.  She was a great cook who made old fashioned meals like dumplings and pea and ham soup.  If I didn’t clean the plate of every last molecule she would stand at the kitchen sink with her arms crossed, tapping a wooden spoon on her elbow.  Always smiling.  My hosts were in their early sixties and they were an odd couple if ever there was one.  He was a stodgy Englishman and a grumpy old wretch most of the time, while she was Irish, fun loving and effervescent as a glass of Sal Vital.  Jack was a veteran motorcycle enthusiast and it seemed the biggest kick he got was when I pulled up on my bike after work each day.  He used to esquire with genuine interest how it had performed in my travels to and from the factory and we would generally have a chat about our favourite bikes until I found an excuse to get up to my room.  In Jack’s opinion there was never a bike built that could match the British classics and he would praise their dependability at every chance.  As well as having an irritable disposition the Lord and master of our household also had a terrible memory.  On a number of occasions he repeated the same stories about how he and Kitty used to ride around the English countryside on his BSA Bantam.  One evening after dinner we were sitting in the living room watching the ABC News and we started talking about bikes as usual.  Jack pulled out a crumpled old photograph of Kitty and himself in younger days as they sat on the old BSA smiling for the camera.  They looked as in love with life as they were with each other and a single tear fell down Jack’s cheek as he viewed the old snapshot. That picture meant everything to him and I could see that it offered precious moments of relief from the disappointments of old age.  Whenever Kitty spotted Jack getting down in the dumps she would chirp away about nothing in particular and try to lift his spirits.  In her spare time she was a Lavender lady at the hospital and trying to make people feel better was her job.  Jack would make half hearted attempts to get involved in dinner table conversations that didn’t involve bikes, but in the back of his mind you could tell he was thinking, ‘Life is not fair’.He never actually said it but I knew he wished he could have his time all over.  It’s probably fitting that Jack’s constant state of despair should make me revel in the importance of my own youth. I was bored to tears by his nostalgic indulgences and I made a private pledge not to waste a moment of my life before it was time to get old and die.

I stayed in contact with the Owen farmboys as best I could, but you know how things are when you are seventeen and ready to take on the world.  I met a Greek beauty from the inner city suburb of Gilberton which made weekend trips to the farm few and far between.  Anna Maria and I only ever got to jump in the cot a couple of times when I came calling because she had an old fashioned Greek mother.  Anna lived under the constant threat of being sent back to Athens with a shaved head if her mother ever caught us getting up to any hanky panky.  Her old lady was a widow and even though she maintained the restrictive traditional ways, she still engaged in a sexual relationship with one of the local, Greek loverboys.  If her daughter ever got up to the same caper she was destined to end up bald and deported back to the homeland.  Anna was two years older than myself at the time and in my books that made her a nineteen year old woman. 

 ‘I guess  double  standards  are  rampant  across  the  globe’.

Big traditional family get togethers were regular events in Anna’s neighborhood and her old girl used to help out with the cooking.  On the two occasions we got to do the dirty deed her mother was preparing food in the house next door.  The moment Anna Maria’s younger sister went off to play with her girlfriends we were at it like sex crazed hamsters in mating season. On the bedroom wall there were glossy posters of ‘The Bay City Rollers’, ‘ABBA’ and ‘Sherbet’ and as we indulged in the joys of forbidden, young love her bedside radio filled the airwaves with,  ‘I only have eyes for you’ ... and, ... ‘Go all the way’.  After rushed attempts to get dressed Anna and I would re-emerge to find long tables bearing meticulously prepared Grecian delights. The tables were stretched out under vine laden lattice where old men played instruments the likes of which I had never seen.  I was welcomed into the clan like one of the family but if they knew what had just taken place in Anna’s bedroom I could very well have found myself minus a pair of balls. 

My girl was the spectacular young Greek Goddess that all of the other girls adored and they would not perform the ‘Zorba’ until Anna had initiated the dance.  One time a short wrinkled old man came scuttling over to my table after playing his heart out at a names day celebration.  He was mumbling something completely unintelligible, as he pointed at me laughing and Anna Maria had to interpret what he was trying to say, ...

“Kan, ...gaa, ... roooo!”.

One fine Saturday morning me and my girl rode the hundred mile stretch out to the farm.  It was the first time I had introduced her to my family and our extremely brief visit was a tense and uncomfortable affair.  I could hear my mother thinking, “What does he see in that little wog bitch?”and she couldn’t help passing comment on our age difference.  It remained reasonably civil for the remainder of our stay but I was looking for any opportunity to split the scene.   The two Robert’s finally rolled up on their trailbikes and told us about a get together taking place in the afternoon.  We all jumped on our bikes and rode out to the Rocks, which is a sandstone gorge separated by a small flowing stream. This picturesque little setting is located between Owen and Balaklava and it’s one of the very few landscape features that exists on the otherwise flat terrain.  

Many of the old crew from high school were at picnic tables by the stream and it felt good to introduce them to Anna.   Now all grown up and working most of them just sat around drinking and chatting about our school days.  The trailbike enthusiasts among us were into a little more action and it wasn’t long before we were trying to out do each other on the steep, crumbling slopes of the gorge.  We had only been at it for a short time when Darren Watson came scrambling up the slope shouting.  Once he had caught his breath he told us that Snake was drunk and he was throwing large rocks at people in the swimming hole.  By this stage all of the other bike riders had gathered around us and turned off their engines.  On hearing the news about Snake all of them looked straight at me from behind mischievous grins.  We fired up our bikes and rode down to the picnic area where panic stricken swimmers were huddling close to rocks and bushes trying to avoid falling boulders.   Snake was at the top of a ten metre sandstone cliff.  He was stumbling around trying to pick up the next rock, totally drunk and delirious.  The sun was directly behind him as I clawed my way up the slope and I couldn’t see the chunks of sandstone he was hurling in my direction.  A hefty piece narrowly missed my head as I reached the summit, but I managed to overpower him when he was bending down to pick up another.  He was so blind, crying drunk that he could offer little resistance.  I pinned his arms to the ground with my knees and it seemed like he was almost relieved that someone had stopped him.  I could hear the crew cheering down below as I leaned over him. Then without warning the moment took on a whole new meaning.  He started weeping for his mother of all things.  I was later to find out from the lads that Snake’s old lady was a well known party girl in the pubs of Balaklava and she abandoned him at an early age to run off with some stranger. Snake was left in the care of his father who was an interstate truck driver and rarely ever at home.  Whenever Snake got too drunk and out of control the crying for mummy routine was the most common crescendo to his rage.  I actually felt sorry for the guy as we rolled him down the slope to the picnic area.  We left him to sleep it off tucked between two hay bales in one of the boys utes, then the old crew drank and laughed till the last flicker of sunlight escaped the southern sky.  My laughter was just an intoxicated front to keep the party up and happening with my friends.  I was actually quite disturbed by the psycho-dramatic displays of Snake, because it happened less than a week after my biological father had come out to the farm for a visit.  I was in the city working at the time and I didn’t get to meet him, but my sister Lesley did.  Apparently she gave him a cold reception at the front door and told him not to bother coming back. Before he left he said that he wanted to get in touch with his only born son and left a contact address on the mat as the door was slammed in his face. 

Anna and I arrived at the farmhouse after my parents were asleep and we stayed in the spare room at the end of a long hall.  We had to keep our giggling and moaning to a minimum but we got to have the closest thing to adult sex yet experienced.  The following morning we left the house before my mother was awake and rode back into Adelaide.  Her own mother was waiting at the front gate and a heated slanging match transpired in the front yard which would have burned the eardrums of anybody listening in.  At least now it was out in the open that we were having a sexual relationship.   Anna’s mother found out the hard way that her daughter didn’t feel like having her head shaved and it wasn’t long after this my Athenian sweetheart moved away from home. 

I went back to work at the factory and forced myself to endure the soul destroying boredom of each slow moving, working week.  I guess I just accepted that it was a sacrifice I had to make if I wanted to keep my girl.  There were nice Greek boys waiting their chance at every turn and they all had the support of Anna’s mother.  Eventually my teenage sweetheart got a place of her own in the city and our relationship blossomed in the sweet flowing nectar of young love. 

                                                                                                 'With Oyzo and Dolmades.Mmmm'.

The unexpected visit by my father nagged at my thoughts for weeks after it happened, so I ventured out to the address he had left with Lesley.  On my arrival at his home in Modbury Heights I was greeted at the front door by a much smaller man than myself. He almost poked his nose through the screen when I asked if his name was, “Istvan Jasko”.  He said it was to which I replied, “So is mine”.   He opened the door to let me in and I was introduced to his wife and their twelve year old daughter. Annika the half sister I never knew I had was trying out a new pair of roller skates in the front room.  My father  seemed genuinely glad to see me but it’s hard to make a connection amid a barrage of meaningless small talk and chatter.  The new skates seemed to be the most important thing happening and I really wanted to get him on his own so we could talk man to man.  We eventually got some precious time alone when he invited me to look at his vegetable garden in the back yard.  From the moment I walked into his house an underlining tension began to surface that I couldn’t put into words.  I knew that I was angry for some unexplainable reason and I could only put it down to the unfavourable character reference my mother had given him through the years.  To fast track the conversation away from rhubarbs and turnips and express my percolating agitation I said,“Listen,  I want a few straight answers about what has happened in my life and if you try to lie, I’m gonna fucking kill you”.  Instantly his attention was directed away from the garden plots to my eyes and we stood like that for long moments as he sized up how big a man his bastard son had become.  No more evasive small talk was forthcoming as he enquired in a calculating tone, ... “And what exactly is it you would like to know young Istvan?  I said, ... “After the police inspected Susan’s grave they told my mother it was a Hungarian tradition for the father to exhume his child and kiss them goodbye, if he was not around at the death, Did you dig up my little sisters grave?”  His eyes had not left mine throughout the intense questioning and when he replied I knew he was telling the truth.  He said that the Adelaide CIB interrogated him about the affair shortly after it happened and they left satisfied when he was able to prove he was in Melbourne at the time.  I allowed my puffed up and hostile posturing to subside at his explanation and I felt that I had cleared up at least one of my childhood confusions.  Up to that point I had been living under the misguided belief that the ‘Black magic’ story might have been one of the old girls elaborate lies to cover up the fact my father was the actual culprit.  I allowed the conversation to drift back to unrelated chatter when my Fathers wife and daughter came out in the garden to join us. 

I wasn’t completely relaxed after our father and son inter-reaction, so I declined an offer to stay for dinner and bid them the most friendly a farewell I could muster.  The level of hostility that I had gone to took me by complete surprise and I felt disappointed at my lack of self control.  I didn’t realize that I had been storing so much anger about Susan’s death through the years and standing face to face with my father brought it all hemorrhaging into the open.  On my way back into the city I pulled up at a pub near Gepps Cross and downed pints of beer with a couple of abattoir workers that I met in the front bar.  They were telling filthy jokes to anyone who would listen and it offered a welcomed escape from my head spinning thoughts and feelings.  I got so pissed that I failed to turn up at Anna’s flat for a pre-arranged dinner and how I got the bike home is beyond me.   I woke up about eleven o’clock the next morning and decided to let the day go it’s own sweet way without me.  Kitty shed some light on my loud and drunken entry to Ayers House over extra strong cups of coffee and she displayed great understanding when I told her the reason for my intoxicated stupor.

'My name is Sue ... how do you do!'