The Varnished Untruth (4 page)

To my horror, the frantically busy people at the Arcobaleno Hotel claimed to have no record of my booking so I spent an hour in hair-limping humidity trying to negotiate a price that was something less than extortionate for a room on their busiest week of the year. If only I could speak Portuguese. I moved into a grubby box overlooking a crowded swimming pool, where salsa music blasted from a shockingly bad speaker system, and wondered what on earth I was doing there. Why, oh why, had I left my family to their peaceful New Year celebration for this over-priced, overcrowded, overheated corner of the globe?

But a lukewarm shower, espresso, and fresh coconut juice later, I headed for the beach – where an epiphany awaited me. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes – a few even approaching perfection – were proudly sunning themselves in the tiniest bikinis I’d ever seen (‘
fio dental
’ the Brazilians call them, slang for thongs as skinny as dental floss). Their plump round bottoms rose proudly from the sand like thousands of freshly exfoliated hillocks. Some action-enthusiasts were dancing axé – a kind of open-air Zumba class – led by a drag queen called Butterfly wearing cut-off denim shorts and the highest platform shoes in which anyone’s ever pirouetted. Young and old, these women were having a ton of fun. Their cellulite shook rhythmically, their tummies flopped comfortably over their pudenda, their crooked, vertical Caesarean scars were unashamedly on display. And they were so incredibly comfortable with their bodies, they totally put me to shame. If only I’d come to Brazil two months earlier! What an untimely lesson they taught me – damn, with the money I spent on surgery I could have bought a flat here. And a wardrobe of
fio dentals
.

The sun was pounding my head – fair and torturous punishment for my abject stupidity, I thought. I was now so dehydrated, fatigued and mentally self-flagellating, I was barely functioning. Mocked by a bevy of deliriously happy, middle-aged Brazilian divas, I slid to the ground and lay helpless on the searing sand. Hot granules stuck to my newly scarred neck and chin but I could no longer help myself. How on earth had I got here? I mean HERE as in ‘to such an insanely ridiculous state of mind and body’? I’m an educated, insightful woman of mature years – a psychologist, for God’s sake, a wife and mother. I have sailed the world, fended off pirates, guerrillas, sharks and
Strictly
judges, why on earth had I put myself through such physical and mental torment, and why did I continue to aggrieve myself in such a shockingly pathetic manner?

At least I was smart enough to know I was in trouble; at least I recognized that the answer to that vital question lay somewhere in the mire of my elusive, murky past. And it clearly lay far beyond any discoveries that had been made during the thirty-odd years of therapy I’d undergone with a dozen well-respected mental health professionals. Therapy is like peeling an onion – layer by layer by layer, until you get down to the raw centre. For some reason I’d never really got to the core. Yes, there was no other choice left: time to book an appointment with myself.

Chapter Two

T
HE
S
HRINK
S
HRUNK

But where on earth would I start? Usually, it would be, ‘Hello, I’m Dr Connolly. Help me to understand why you’ve come to see me . . .’ But that wasn’t going to work when I was the patient as well. This could be scary. Could I be as compassionate and insightful with myself as I am with other people? Could I avoid being judgmental of myself? (If so, it would be a first.) For sure, I would know immediately if I lied, dissembled, or tried to distract the therapist with small talk, humour or flirtation. What, so I’d have to be completely honest with myself? Wow, what a concept. And near impossible. Much of what goes on in one’s psyche occurs well below the level of upper consciousness, and teasing out material from the unconscious mind can be very difficult, requiring the help of therapists, shamans or dream-tenders. I’ve received guidance from all of the above, but the work has always been slow, painstaking and incredibly challenging. Could I manage this next phase alone?

And how exactly should I go about trying to ‘shrink’ myself? Should I perform self-hypnosis? Analyze my own dreams? I already do that. What about . . . delivering my ‘stream of consciousness’ into a Dictaphone and then analyzing it later? Or perhaps I could employ a technique used to help overly left-brained people to allow their creative, right brain to function better – it might undermine my own reserve in exactly the right way. Being right-handed, I took a pen in my left hand and positioned it over a blank piece of paper. After a few minutes it began to move, seemingly without my conscious control.

Instant regression. That was promising. I pulled up my metaphorical therapist’s chair, took my notepad, and tried to stare empathically at myself.

Why don’t you start by telling me something about your childhood? Perhaps some positive memory you might have . . .?

Ah, yes. My childhood. (Deep breath.) Ahhh, where to start . . .? (Silence)

Take your time. In your mind’s eye, what are you seeing?

Somewhere, I have this black-and-white, Brownie box camera photograph of myself in early 1961, wearing a woollen cardigan beneath the Egyptian sun, sharing a camel with my father. I remember feeling guilty about the wicked delight I felt when the rogue leading my mother’s camel threatened, ‘Pay me more, lady, or I’ll make the camel dance!’ Did I mention I didn’t much like my mother?

Hmmm . . . Pamela, you just made a very important disclosure but couched it in a throw-away style – would you care to tell me more about that?

Later . . . I watched gleefully as she bounced around like a rag doll on a mechanical bull, wailing contemptuously. The thought of it still makes me smile – is that so wrong? (OMG I’ve just remembered that I kind of tricked her on to the Jurassic Park ride at Universal Studios when she was in her seventies and that had a similar effect – what an evil monster I am.)

Do you really think of yourself as evil?

In a way. I’ll get to that. But, see, 1961 was the most exciting year of my childhood; not particularly because I saw someone getting the better of my mother, but it was the year both my parents took sabbaticals from their Australian university posts. We headed for London on-board the SS
Iberia
, a large P&O liner – I used to think that stood for ‘Pacific and Orient’ but I believe it was actually ‘Peninsular and Oriental’. To be honest, ‘Puking and Overbalancing’ would have been more appropriate considering some of the dreadful weather we faced, but anyway I thought the
Iberia
was absolutely beautiful – gleaming white with a yellow funnel, and fresh from a new refit. She’d had several mishaps in the past, notably a collision with a tanker and running aground in the Suez Canal, but she still did the Sydney to London run in five weeks or so, stopping at Melbourne, Adelaide, Singapore, Sri Lanka (it was Ceylon in those days), Port Said (we took the option to travel overland to Cairo), Naples and Marseille. Apart from an annual Christmas holiday trip to New Zealand where I was born, we rarely went anywhere except for Sunday afternoon drives. Those regular outings had always frustrated my two younger sisters and me (even though it was unbearably hot and stuffy we were rarely allowed out of the car) and vexed my father because we bickered and fought. The trips invariably climaxed in wild attempts by my father to steer our second-hand Holden and, at the same time, reach his beefy forearm into the back seat to slap the culprits.

It’s funny now, but it wasn’t then. I was rather scared of him because he seemed to use corporal punishment not only to discipline us, but also to vent his general frustration. I remember running and sliding under the bed to avoid his slapping hand, and how his big hairy arm would swing like a pendulum, trying to hit its mark. (Actually, I’m very attracted to men with powerful arms now – wow, I’ve just realized there’s probably a connection. Sorry – I digress . . .).

No need to apologize . . . you can digress as much as you want . . . And, by the way, it’s common to sexualize physical aggression.

Hah! So that’s my problem – a Popeye Complex! Didn’t Freud prescribe spinach for that?

He certainly mentioned the tendency to use humour to deflect attention from painful memories . . .

Ah . . . OK. Straight face. Like my father, I was born in Auckland, New Zealand. My mother spent her first twelve years in Fiji but was sent away to school at Epsom Girls Grammar in New Zealand and fell for dad when they were up some mountain together chasing after rare frogs. Yes, you’re right if you’re thinking ‘What a pair of serious nerds.’ My father was a zoologist, my mother a biologist and, after they produced three girls, we moved to Sydney, Australia, where they took up lecturing positions at the University of Sydney and the University of New South Wales respectively. I was four then, so I had no say in the matter. I only mention that because I sometimes feel put on the spot about what exactly my nationality is, and towards which country my loyalties lie. I hold an Australian passport (I was naturalized in Australia when I was small) and that’s where I grew up. So I’m a New Zealand-born Australian, and I feel that both countries qualify as ‘home’ – for different reasons.

It seems important to you that you are understood, that you don’t offend anyone. Do you think you find it difficult – even painful – to tolerate the feeling that you might somehow disappoint someone?

Well that’s strange, because I made an entire career out of being comically offensive . . . But you’re right – not meeting someone’s expectations is a big deal for me. Actually, I think I now understand where that comes from . . .

And where might that be . . .?

Not now. Anyway, eight months before we arrived in Australia, my middle sister Claire and I had been very poorly with polio. I remember the daily injections that made me scream, but I was probably very lucky that a vaccine and treatment had just become available, because I eventually made a full recovery. I’m not telling you about my illness just to get your sympathy; it’s particularly relevant because once we got to Australia I was sent to have ballet lessons at the Edna Mann School of Dance at the Hunters Hill Town Hall on Saturday mornings to strengthen my limbs – which spawned my passion for dance. Best, best, best thing about my early life!

What was it like for you, being so ill?

I don’t really remember much about it . . .

Hmmm. It can’t have been easy . . . You’ve buried those feelings?

I guess so. In fact, I remember very little about my New Zealand toddler days, although three things in particular were always brought up by family members:

1. In the house where we lived in Takapuna there was a large bay window with upholstered seating facing the street, and apparently I used to enjoy parading my naked body on the other side of the curtains, visible to passersby. Just the fact that this story was told as an example of my ‘exhibitionist tendencies, even at four years old – of course she went into show business!’ will give you a sense of what kind of people raised me. As if a four-year-old would even be aware of what it meant socially to be seen naked! And as if anyone who saw me would either care or imagine such natural childhood behaviour to be deliberately provocative! I’m sorry to get on my high horse, but honestly . . .

2. My pre-school teacher became Sir Edmund Hillary’s wife (you know Hillary, the guy who climbed Mount Everest?) At three years old my teacher’s love life was completely irrelevant to me and I just knew her as ‘Miss Rose’.

3. I was sick on the front seat of the Fokker Friendship plane that took us to Australia, exactly where the Duke of Edinburgh was supposed to be sitting when they picked him up in Sydney the following day. So, obviously, I had early Republican tendencies, although when I actually met the Queen’s husband around forty years later I thought he was very kind to avoid bringing it up. My parents thought the incident was unfortunate, but also amusing; I had the same feelings myself when, during a London to LA flight, my first baby threw up on Joan Collins. Granted, Daisy was a little young to be so censorious, but Joan took it very nicely.

Our family moved to a small, arid, inland suburb of Sydney called Boronia Park where we’d bought an ugly, concrete-sprayed house – have you ever seen that kind of exterior work? It’s hideous – like construction acne – and if you accidentally brush against it, it grazes your skin. Hide-and-seek was a truly painful affair. The whole area was just developing and I remember it as terribly hot and dusty. There was very little growing there in the early days – just a few stringy-barked gum trees and indigenous shrubs. The aural landscape was lively and loud, though; the strident humming of cicadas morning and night, the constant barking of neighbourhood dogs, and a kookaburra laughing from its usual perch on top of our clothes line.

The shape of my world at that time was a ‘T’. Our house was halfway down Thompson Street, which led up a hill to Gladesville Road. To the left of that junction was the Milk Bar, where the delicious, icy, strawberry milkshakes guaranteed a brain freeze, then on the right side was a cluster of other shops – the fruit and vegetable store run by a nice Italian family, the grocery-store-cum-post-office, and finally the fish shop. The latter was my favourite. They sold hot, salty, battered fish and prawns with chips, and saveloy sausages and flat, round, battered potatoes we called ‘scallops’. Oh, I loved them, and have never managed to eschew my unhealthy taste for fried food. Across the road from all of these was the knitting shop, where you could also buy greetings cards. To the left of the T junction was my primary school and opposite there was an untidy vacant lot. I really loved the wildness of that piece of land. I trekked through it every day as a shortcut to school, and there were always surprises. The sticky, paspalum grass often brushed my legs and left me with a rash, but I didn’t care. There would be mysterious rustlings in the undergrowth, and sometimes I’d find a blue-tongued lizard sunning itself across my path. In February, overnight rain transformed the main track into a tiny water-filled gully, topped by soft, ochre mud that stuck to my school shoes. In spring, I might narrowly avoid stepping on a sly snake – they weren’t exactly benign creatures – which would set my heart racing. Even an innocent brush against a shrub might cause my skin to be invaded by a dangerous tick. Yes, I had good reason to be afraid, yet I was sad when it became a Total petrol garage.