Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (40 page)

Robbie sent through to the office a fax informing us that the anti-porn bill had passed through the Northern Territory Legislative Assembly. Paul was angry and raced home to tell me.

‘We’re fucked!’ he exclaimed. ‘Looks like we might have to move back to Melbourne after all.’ The legislation had totally banned the duplication of videos in the Territory and imposed a twenty thousand dollar penalty per video duplicated.

Apparently Gerry was planning to revert to duplicating in Canberra, then freighting the tapes to Darwin for despatch. That would be cheaper than paying the ACT’s tax, but the courier costs would be horrendous and it didn’t seem viable any more.

Paul read out the succinct verdict of one opposition politician from Hansard: ‘You are allowed to watch someone being cut up with a chainsaw, but you cannot watch people having a bang.’

‘You’re kidding?’ I asked. ‘They’re saying that in parliament?’

‘Yeah . . . well, the Legislative Assembly—same thing.’

Anyway, I thought, we’re fucked.

24

‘Your birth mother’s a fucking bitch.’ Paul lit a cigarette as he leaned back on our balcony railing.

I felt that was a bit unfair, but he told me to look at the facts: I’d first made contact over a year ago, when she promised to meet me, and all I’d had was a litany of excuses. It had been months since I’d sent the letter to Trudie.

‘She’s not being straight with you,’ he argued, ‘and she hasn’t answered your letter asking for your father’s name. That’s the least she could do if she doesn’t want to know you.’

I replied she was probably feeling afraid and threatened, but he said that was no excuse. And, he was emphatic that she had no right to ask me
not
to speak to my own aunt—just because she was in a 1950s time warp where single mothers were frowned upon.

‘Call your Auntie Bess and tell her who you are,’ he urged, ‘or I’ll call her myself.’ I had kept her phone number for just such an occasion.

It was at times like this that I appreciated Paul’s decisiveness. Of course, I knew his views were formed as a result of his own situation, having been denied his father’s name for so long; but I was persuaded by the force of his argument. I knew he had my best interests at heart and I admired him for the strength of his convictions.

So I called Bess, full of trepidation. Once I had told her who I was, she was overjoyed to hear from me, never questioning my identity. Although she hadn’t known of my existence, she didn’t seem surprised; perhaps she’d even suspected Trudie had a child and recognised my letter for what it was. She said my appearance explained why my mother left so suddenly for Sydney all those years ago, supposedly for a job—something that had always puzzled her.

I apologised for fobbing her off previously, clarifying that it was only because Trudie had asked me to. In our hour-long conversation, I learnt far more about my relatives than the morsels my own mother had given me. Bess was everything that my mother was not: a retired nurse, she was warm and compassionate; she welcomed me into the family, saying no doubt everyone would be delighted to learn of my existence.

I explained how distressed I was that Trudie wouldn’t tell me who my father was. In her matronly manner, Bess said she’d march over to Trudie’s place and extract my father’s name.

An hour later, she called back to tell me that Trudie would write to me soon.

Paul was with me when the letter from Trudie finally arrived. My fingers trembled as I opened her letter, with its shaky copperplate writing.

She started off talking about the weather. Then:

Your father was a Senior Qantas Pilot whom I met in 1947 in
Townsville. He made stopovers there. He was 2nd in charge on
the regular run: Sydney, Port Moresby N.G.; he was ex-RAAF and
was sent overseas during World War II. Also, he was decorated
with a DFC . . .

He used to get pains in his legs, sometimes cramps; also
headaches which he never reported and of course were not picked
up. He was worried he had a brain tumour. I left for Sydney
and realised I was pregnant later. I never contacted him, nor did
I speak with him again.

In June 1956 his death notice appeared in the paper with a
statement from Qantas. Rather, I should say his disappearance
from North Head. His car was found nearby in a deserted area. His jacket was neatly folded over his wallet.

He had committed suicide in Sydney when I was just three months old. I was still reeling from the shock; I thought that perhaps he must have had some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. His father had come to see Trudie after they’d found her telephone number and address among his possessions, but she was relieved to be able to say truthfully that she hadn’t seen him since Townsville.

She’d added:
The father’s family came from Scotland. His parents
took it all so badly: he was their only child. Your father’s name was
Allan Proctor.
Then she signed off with
all my love to you and Paul,
and big hugs to the little ones
, which was sweet.

‘What a tragic story,’ I said. But frankly, it had opened up more questions than it had answered.

Paul’s alcohol consumption had escalated since Brian’s death. He was also constantly irritable and argumentative. At night he would retreat to his room, withdrawing from me and the children. Often he would sleepwalk in a drunken daze, reeking of alcohol in the morning.

‘Listen,’ he suddenly said over dinner one evening. ‘I’ve had a call from Gerry in Darwin. The business has had a major downturn . . . and some of our accounts are in arrears.’

I knew instantly that things were probably far worse than Paul was letting on.

‘Gerry reckons he can’t keep subsidising
Flesh
. It has to start paying for itself.’

I had thought it was, but apparently not. It had become too expensive to despatch the videos out of the Northern Territory. We may have been avoiding the 40 per cent franchise fee in Canberra, but the cost of freighting everything up to Darwin then freighting it all back south again was prohibitive, especially as most of our clients were in the eastern states.

I insisted that we go to the office and speak to Flora. With two children under two years, it was months since I’d visited.

Flora was grim as she showed us the accounts. I couldn’t understand how the debt had become so large without us knowing.

She hesitated. ‘Well . . . I did warn Paul.’ She said he was ordering so much stock and there just wasn’t the cashflow any more, because of the large courier bills.

‘Yeah, I know—he never listens,’ I said, glaring at Paul. ‘You told me the business was doing well. We should never have gone overseas,’ I lamented.

I had trusted him with the business and he’d kept reassuring me everything was fine. I’d been having babies for the past two years while he’d been racing around in a Beamer we couldn’t afford and living in a house we couldn’t pay for.

‘Oh, my God—the house!’ I wailed. It suddenly dawned on me that we were going to lose it because he’d talked me into putting it in the company name. I was furious now. ‘You’ve talked me into some stupid things, but that was one of the fucking stupidest!’

‘But Danny at Deloittes said we could tax deduct the loan,’ Paul offered lamely.

‘Yeah, if we’re making a profit.’ I explained, as if to a child, that a tax deduction when you’re making a loss is just a bigger loss. I was frustrated by his inability to grasp basic principles. He just didn’t get it.

‘You’re accountancy-challenged,’ I sniped, knowing we were facing disaster.

Paul began lengthy negotiations with Gerry and reported back to me once a deal had been struck. Gerry pointed out that technically we’d been trading while insolvent—as company directors, we would be breaking the law if we continued in business. He offered a solution whereby we would avoid bankruptcy.

Gerry proposed to take over everything, including our liabilities. He would take possession of our house and
Flesh,
from which he’d satisfy the creditors; we’d retain all the copyright material—the footage and photos—and walk away. Given that he was the main creditor, it seemed like a good deal for us.

‘Yeah,’ I barely hesitated. ‘Let’s do it.’

It broke my heart to let go of the staff, particularly Tanya and Tessa, but I knew they’d find employment elsewhere. We began packing up the office. Other than all our footage, photos and negs, I didn’t take much with me, besides client orders and correspondence.

Paul suggested that maybe my trustees could buy the house from our company with some of their spare cash. But I’d already discussed that with them: they wouldn’t buy real estate in a territory, because it wasn’t freehold property—all ACT land is government owned and on a 99-year lease.

‘That’s just a technicality,’ said Paul. ‘Fucking conservative bastards!’

Anyway, I wanted to live in Melbourne; we had a choice of two houses there. ‘Don’t complain. If it wasn’t for Dory’s trust fund, we’d be out on the streets.’

But Paul flatly refused to move into either of them. He labelled the Balwyn house as too small and thought we should sell the Warrandyte one. Reluctantly, I agreed, instructing the trust to buy another property with the proceeds.

So the trustees sold the Kangaroo Ground Road home and bought a suburban property in the eastern suburb of Templestowe. I felt sad at the loss of our uniquely charming house, but our new ‘executive residence’ boasted quality amenities. The only thing missing was an extra bedroom—I worried how Paul and I would fare being forced to sleep in the same bed.

Perhaps because he was feeling guilty about losing the business, Paul again broached the subject of me meeting my mother. He’d had an idea: he was going to call up Trudie and tell her that he was shouting me a trip to Townsville for my birthday. ‘You have to meet her—before she carks it . . . like Brian,’ he warned me.

‘But she doesn’t want to meet me,’ I countered.

‘Rubbish. She just needs a little push.’

I fervently hoped it wouldn’t be too traumatic for her.

So Paul rang Trudie. I asked him excitedly what she’d said. ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said, explaining that she obviously didn’t want me in Queensland, and so she was coming to Canberra instead. ‘Anyway, I told her we’d put her up at the Hyatt. It was either that or the Pavilion, and I couldn’t do that—not after we’d shot porn movies there!’

‘The Hyatt?’ I said, thinking how lucky it was that we still had my trust income. Unfortunately, it was bad timing. The house was full of boxes containing the packed-up office contents: cartons with labels like
Horny Housewife, Videos 1 to 5
. ‘We’ll just have to hope she doesn’t go snooping when she comes here to visit.’

‘Hey, maybe we can throw a sheet over them—like what we did with Donald!’