You Never Met My Father (14 page)

I would visit Paul almost every day. I slipped into his family without being noticed. I was there for meals. I slept over whenever I could. I went on holidays with them to distant places. I felt closer to them than to my real family, which wasn't quite a family anyway. I was like a young cuckoo, not the same shape or temperament as the rest of the brood but doing my best to remain inconspicuous, so I wouldn't be thrown from the nest. I tried hard to be the vicar's second son.

On weekends throughout summer we piled into their family car, a two-tone Austin station wagon, to be driven to Narrawong (which to amuse us the vicar called ‘Skinny Chinaman') or to splendid Bridgewater Bay where we played in the open sea, or inspected rock pools for starfish and minnows, or played beach cricket. In all our games Paul led the way and I followed. When we got home from the beach, Mrs Walters put us in the upstairs bath together, and in a tub we filled to the brim Paul invented a new game, submarines, with our dicks doubling as essential pieces of wartime apparatus. Up periscope, down periscope. Paul had a more impressive periscope than I did.

Paul was the one to reveal the secret of sex to me. Apparently our periscopes had another, unfamiliar, use. He showed me a slim book the vicar had given him, after he had studied its contents thoroughly. The book was full of diagrams depicting men and women's private parts, and in some diagrams the man's ‘penis', the official name for a dick, was erect and inside the woman. I observed each diagram, transfixed, unable to believe my eyes. The book claimed that babies were created this way. It was nothing short of preposterous. And nothing short of scandalous that a vicar gave such a book to his son!

I tried to imagine my mother and father doing what these diagrams suggested. Impossible! I thought of the vicar and Mrs Walters. Never! Surely the ‘crane theory of baby deliveries', itself hard to believe, made more sense than this. It rocked my faith in God. How could The Almighty devise such a sordid and sinful beginning to life? But a small part of me obviously endorsed the whole idea. I thumbed through the book again and again, risking a catastrophic injury.

My faith took a hit only to be restored some months later when the vicar led a group of local church boys on excursion to the blowholes at Cape Bridgewater. It was a relatively benign evening. There were no great swells in the Southern Ocean. The vicar stood before us on the edge of cliffs that dropped thirty or forty metres straight into the sea, raised his arms as he would to praise the Lord and cried drolly, “Let us spray!”

We loved him when he made gently irreverent jokes like this. And our laughter would have been followed by attempts at puns of our own. But without warning a great wave rose up above the cliff and had us diving for safety. I gripped some craggy rocks as best I could and watched the Reverend in horror. With his eyes closed he hadn't seen it coming. He was drenched but wasn't swept away. In my eyes it was a miracle, and a warning not to mock the affairs of the Lord.

Oddly enough my trust in Reverend Walters was eroded by what (I have no doubt these days) were his good intentions. He used to take me away with his family to places like Melbourne and Mildura. Knowing my family couldn't afford such holidays, he was simply acting on his charitable beliefs and had no idea what impact the trip to Mildura would have on me. Nor did he ever find out.

My mother was happy for me to go. She must have swallowed her pride, given me what pocket money she could, and made sure I packed clothes that wouldn't embarrass her. She knew the Walters. She and my sisters came to church with me now and then. She liked to see me in altar-boy robes. She encouraged my church attendance, my Catechism classes and my eventual Confirmation. She had once told me she believed in Jesus and I had no reason to doubt her. I could see her from the chancel, sitting at a pew near the front, in a blue floral skirt and a tight white hat made from woven cane. My sisters alongside her were dressed just as primly. At home, however, God was never mentioned. Religion was a private matter in our house.

On the trip to Mildura the Reverend Walters had driven through the night. It was dawn when I awoke on the back seat. We were already in the river town. Paul and a couple of his sisters were asleep next to me. The vicar was driving around, looking for the house he had organised for our stay. Only half-awake I thought we were still travelling north but we must have been going in some other direction.

Maintaining my bearings in those days was extremely important to me, although I couldn't say why. Perhaps knowing which way was north meant I knew where home was. Mine wasn't much of a home but it was less scary than none.

Disorientated, I was convinced Mildura was on the north side of the river, despite evidence to the contrary that Paul produced: his road map, his trusty compass, his precocious confidence.

I wasn't thinking cardinal points while we were having fun—playing in the Murray River on sweltering days, travelling its wide brown waters on an historic paddle steamer, eating ice-cream, climbing on vintage tractors in the riverside park and visiting museums—but when we left a week later the disquieting sensation returned. I was sure the Reverend was driving further north instead of south, heading away from home.

I sat in dumb apprehension, staring from the car window, trying to get some bearings, too scared to ask in case he thought I was being disrespectful.

When we arrived back in Portland the evidence before my eyes should have ended the doubts. But my false sense of direction prevailed. The Reverend dropped me outside a place that looked identical to my home, right down to the mother who appeared at the gate.

How could I be sure that she and the entire town weren't fakes?

My anxiety was high. I had nobody to turn to, nobody to ask, nobody to help, nobody to rescue me. My trust of the Walters family, including Paul, vanished. Paul snorted derisively when I asked in a whisper if we were in the right place. He must have known; must have been part of the conspiracy to fool me. I felt abandoned. Worse, I felt they had somehow become aware of my secret yearning to be a part of their family, and had decided to get rid of me once and for all. I wanted to tell them that I was aware of what was happening. But I feared the consequences, feared punishment, feared something worse. So I pretended to be unconcerned. As long as they didn't suspect I knew what was happening to me, I thought I would be safe. Eventually, if I were clever enough, I would devise a strategy to get back home.

The disturbing doubts lingered for months. I kept looking for evidence that this town I had come to was fake but spotted nothing out of place. I thought it was ingenious; an exact replica in every respect. My family was a perfect imitation. I couldn't fault it. The woman being my mother might as well have been her. She looked the same, acted the same, treated me the same. The girls, likewise, were just like my sisters. I looked for minor details that could easily have been overlooked by the conspirators, like the initials I had scratched surreptitiously onto a fence post with a pocket knife a few weeks before the holiday, or a shilling I had hidden under a rock, but these and others I checked were there. I went further afield, down to the harbour where I knew of a crude skull and crossbones painted onto a rock at the end of an old fishermen's breakwater. Still there. So too the piece of nylon rope I had tied to a rusting iron peg near the old lighthouse. Everything was consistent with what had been. Sometimes I turned around swiftly, trying to catch sight of someone relaxing, momentarily dropping their role in the deception. But everyone remained in character.

I began to think I was being punished for my sins, my disloyalty to my mother and sisters. When the tiny-monster head sensation recurred, I was convinced God had decided the fake home was not punitive enough. My head expanded and contracted beyond my control. It made me nauseous and scared. Maybe I shouldn't have ogled the drawings of what men and women do to have babies. Maybe that was the sin I was being punished for.

One day I developed an excruciating stomach pain, which wouldn't go away. I feared someone had poisoned me: my mother or the Walters. The fake Pat pretended to be worried. She took me to hospital. The hospital staff ran tests on me but found nothing wrong. I stayed in a ward overnight, sure the nurses were part of the conspiracy and sure I was going to die. By morning the pain had gone. When Pat came to pick me up I thought I noticed the nurses sniggering and winking at her.

With time I realised that I might as well treat this charade as the real thing. I couldn't detect any difference. For in my real home everything would have been happening just the same. So I went along with it. I knew I was not clever enough to find my way back. My anxiety gradually eased until I was seldom aware of being in a counterfeit world.

Occasionally, lying in my bed at night, with my head still expanding and contracting, I would wonder if my real mother and sisters were missing me. I knew if I'd had a real father who took me on holidays, none of this would have happened.

By the time I reached my eleventh birthday, I had accepted my fate. My mother's efforts to make me happy, buying me a brand new leather football and giving me a party, seemed genuine enough. But I couldn't dispel completely the feeling that people you love can betray you.

It was my father's reappearance that finally convinced me I was mistaken. It seemed like a year since we had last seen him. Without warning he arrived in a late model Holden, a white sedan with bold scarlet side panels that led to dorsal fins and soaring tail lights, far more impressive than the Walter's two-tone Austin. I gaped at it and him in wonder. How could he have gotten such an expensive thing? We were not the kind of people who could afford a reasonable second-hand car much less a new one. It was the crazy kind of thing only my real father would do. My delusions about the authenticity of the town and my family fell away.

“What a car!” I cried. “Is it ours?”

He grinned. “All ours, my friend. Do you like it?”

“My oath!” I chortled, trying to sound manly.

I followed him inside.

He was much gaunter than I remembered. His eyes were even wilder. His clothes looked brand new; a Fletcher Jones suit and patent-leather shoes. He looked like he was returning from a successful bank hoist rather than a hospital. He tried to embrace us all at once, to impart his enthusiasm for the family reunion.

I noticed Pat's pained expression. It gave me a jolt. Shouldn't she have been joyous? She put an extra potato in the pot and divided the lamb chops into another serve.

“This's bloody good,” he said, grinning at each of us as we sat at the table, our eyes downcast, wondering how we should behave.

He asked me about what year I was in at school and if I liked living in Portland and if I had any friends. So I told him about Paul and the Walters and my recently acquired religious beliefs.

“Good, good,” he said, and asked my sisters similar questions.

At one stage he turned back to me and said that I needn't waste any prayers on him; he had already sold his soul to the devil.

I was shocked by his confession. My father was doomed, lost in hell for all eternity. Yet it didn't seem to bother him. He was cheerful, even merry. But during tea, when Pat asked him about the car, his mood changed swiftly.

“What's the problem?” he demanded.

Pat's elbows were on the table. She rubbed her wan forehead, as if she were pondering the wisdom of what she wanted to say to him. “Where did you get it?”

His levity vanished in an instant. It took less than a minute for his indignation to build into a full-blown rage. I watched the transformation in horror. His eyes bulged. His bottom jaw protruded. A livid vein appeared on his forehead.

“Where do you bloodywell think?”

“I don't know where you got the money from, darl, but there're more important things we need than a new car.” Her voice began to break. “If you spent more time with us, you'd understand. Clothes for the kids. Some more blankets. A warm coat would be nice.”

She always felt cold in winter. I had a sudden attack of guilt about my enthusiasm for the car.

“And how the hell am I supposed to find work without a bloody car?”

“Haven't you got a job?” Jean interjected.

“Of course he hasn't,” my mother said unwisely.

“How much money do you need to buy a new car?” Jean went on.

“I can't even afford to buy you kids a bicycle on the wages I earn,” Pat said.

With a roar Denny tore off the tablecloth and all the plates and condiments. I heard them smashing on the floor around us. Our meal was gone.

“So this's the welcome I get,” he roared. “Well, you can all go to hell!”

My mother leaned back in her chair, her chin tucked into her neck, her face drained of colour, her lips turned down, aggrieved and fearful.

“Oh, Denny,” she murmured.

He tossed aside the tablecloth and left us to clean up the mess.

When I pondered his return, years later, I suspected he had desperately wanted to impress us. He had craved our admiration and respect. What better way than with a brand new car? Instead our distrust wounded him deeply.

He frightened us for days, leaving Pat battered and bruised, and me cowering in my room.

I could hardly believe how fierce he looked. He would close his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them they bulged. His jaw would jut so much it seemed dislocated as he positioned his arm for a backhander. The sound when he landed a blow on my mother's face was like a gunshot, her cry unforgettable.

“Oh don't, Denny, please!” she whimpered. “Not in front of the kids. They don't need to see you like this.”

Once he held the point of a carving knife to her throat, gratified by the terror in her eyes. In my room my guts rumbled, but I held my bum hole tight and endured the ache, too scared to race outside, past him, to the toilet.