Читать книгу Dare to Dream - Peter Cliff - Страница 9

One Sunday night I packed a small bag before going to bed. At about three in the morning I rose and left the house. It was a cold, still night with a little cloud cover. There was just enough moonlight to allow a view of the road when my eyes adjusted to the dark. I walked down the familiar gravel road to the store, crossed the wooden bridge over the Bass River, past the butter factory beyond which the road wound for about three miles through the dense undeveloped bush to the highway. The only noise was the scrunch of my footsteps on the loose gravel road and the occasional thump of a wallaby crossing the road or moving in the scrub. On reaching the highway I began trying to hitch a ride from one of the few vehicles at that hour. Eventually, a large truck stopped. The driver was on his way to Melbourne. He seemed amused when I said I was looking for work but he agreed to drop me off in the city. I intended to catch a train to distant relatives, the Johnsons who lived in Pascoe Vale, I had been there a number of times and knew the way well enough.

There was great consternation on my arrival, especially since the Johnsons had no idea of my coming. They were getting ready to go to work but anxiously changed their plans and began to question me. They said I could stay for a few days but persuaded me they had to let my parents know where I was since I had left without notice. My mother and father set out that day and arrived relieved and embarrassed about my intrusion into the relative’s lives. The aunt and uncle, I am sure, had a suspicion things were not right in our family. Now Stan was concerned. He apologised and promised to be better if I came home. They needed me, and besides, I was not old enough to leave home.

Things did improve for a while. I found a little time to go fishing with local boys like Colin Turton and Allan Watson. We fished for eels in the Bass River and caught heaps. It was huge fun. We also caught minnows in the creek but it takes a lot to make a meal of them. This was valuable time with the neighborhood boys who took the opportunity to teach me the local folk lore. I was less enthusiastic over Colin’s idea of fun, shaking the tee-trees along the railway line until the possums pissed themselves.

As hay time approached I arranged with a neighbor to borrow his horse drawn mower – he had graduated to a new tractor and mower. I began cutting the hay one hot day when my uncle Bill was due to arrive. By late morning the horses were tiring so I stopped mowing and began to remove the horses from the mower with the intention of watering them and allowing them graze for a couple of hours. As I was doing so, Stan and Uncle Bill approached. Stan must have temporarily forgotten the presence of Bill because he immediately took a swipe at me and began a tirade of abuse. According to him, I had knocked off too early. He was furious. He snatched the reins from me and put the horses back into the mower. They refused to move. Stan, oblivious of Bill, and now in a terrible rage, began to berate me and the horses for being such ‘useless fucking bastards’ and thrashing them mercilessly with the reins and a stick he picked up. Bill was horrified and called out, ‘That’s enough,’ and, ‘I’m going home.’ Stan stopped as if struck. He had a dazed look of embarrassment and threw the reins on the ground before returning to the house with Bill. He had forgotten himself in the presence of a witness, a rare miscalculation.

The New Year of 1955 saw us all back to school, including Ross for his first year. Mum noticed something was not right with Ross. She felt he was unable to see or walk normally. A local doctor thought he had worms but she persisted. Something was not right. She returned to the Queen Victoria Hospital and consulted Dr Kate Campbell who immediately diagnosed a brain tumour from symptoms visible in Ross’s eye. He was promptly admitted to Prince Henry’s Hospital where Mr Curtis spoke with us in the foyer. By chance, I was with my mother that day and I can recall Mr Curtis telling us he held little hope for Ross’s survival but he would do his best to save him. Miraculously, Ross survived the heroic surgery. Mum stayed with her mother and stepfather at their home in Newport and travelled by train every day to and from Newport to Prince Henry’s Hospital. She was also pregnant with a new baby due in October. I was indignant and questioned the wisdom of having another child in our present circumstances. She cried. We argued. How was she to explain to me the details of her predicament? We were both miserable. I felt worse and ashamed for seeming to resent the new child. I worried – was I simply being selfish?

With Mum away, conditions on the farm became unimaginably worse. Stan continued working and returned as usual after drinking more, too late to assist on the farm. Bruce and I battled on doing the milking and trying to maintain the routine of the farm. We survived in large measure due to the help of wonderful neighbours who plied us with food and clothing. They would leave casseroles and other dishes in the large mailbox at the roadside. The good will of these people and the community concern for us at this time has left an enduring memory I will value forever. Stan’s helpless rage and frustration was now unchecked and he held me responsible for all of our woes. The abuse, ridicule and violence were now worse than ever. He wanted to fight me virtually on sight. My misery was overwhelming. Despite every attempt to run the farm Stan found fault with everything I did. Together with the now neglected state of the house, we were at a new low.

A saving feature for me was my new found interest in school, for this was my third year at Wonthaggi Technical School. I was in the ‘Farmers Class’. Our teacher, Mr Trevor McEvoy, spoke quietly with authority and an amused smile. He was not judgmental and was always reasonable. He wore a tweed sports coat, well cut trousers and polished brown shoes. He was an example of the man I wished to be, and perhaps, unconsciously, the father I wanted. There were only six boys in the class and I was enjoying the interest this new teacher had in me. He would summon me to his small office and discuss my work. I had been forever fighting other boys and getting into trouble with the other teachers but slowly my anger and confusion began to dissipate. Trevor became my adopted father figure. My school work improved dramatically. I suspect he was doing the same for other boys, however, my friendship with him was destined to endure for life. His example became a guiding beacon of how I would like to be perceived by others. I was able to respect him as a man.

On 14^th of October 1955, Geoffrey Robert Cliff was born. Despite everything, there was a brief celebration and cessation of hostilities. The additional good news was that Ross was making a recovery after his grueling six month ordeal and was finally discharged from hospital. Mum, Ross, Pam and Geoffrey returned to the farm. Mum was elated with her expanded family but annoyed no one had visited Ross while she had been in the Queen Victoria Hospital having the baby.

Mum’s return to the farm was a profound shock to her. The house, neglected during her time away, upset her and she remonstrated with Stan over the extreme neglect of not only the house but Bruce and me and our impending financial doom. Stan retaliated with his usual threats, abuse and violence. Mum was afraid because the fighting had attained a new level of savagery. I was maturing and becoming stronger, more able to defend myself and even more protective of Mum. I was able to appreciate she was recovering from the birth of Geoffrey and having huge difficulty with maintaining the home, especially given the primitive conditions we were living in. Our rubber boots were worn out and leaking. Our feet were constantly wet and covered in mud and our clothes were cast off’s largely given to us by neighbours. We had no rainwear and wore men’s old coats for warmth. There were no torches or kerosene lamps – we were adept at finding our way about the farm and visiting neighbors in the dark. My sense of frustration, disgust and anger with Stan was barely containable. He was not going to beat Mum anymore. The frequent fist fights nearly always started in the kitchen and become protracted affairs that terrified the little children and left everyone with enduring fears for life. They would scream and plead for it to stop. Pamela still remembers trying to hit Dad with her pink skipping rope during one episode.

About this time, Stan attacked me one day as I left the dairy. I responded by running up the hill behind the house where, although he was fit, he was unable to catch me. The terror of fighting him dissipated. I would just walk in and get it over, but he better watch out. The fear of fighting was replaced by a deep empty sadness. It is not natural to fight your father. It is a betrayal of trust. I wept.

Conversation was impossible in the home after the fighting. The tension was unbearable. At night I would visit friends or do anything to get away. I returned only to sleep but would lie awake wracked with despair and pray for intervention. Would someone, anyone, take control of Stan and free us from his tyranny? The prayers went unanswered. The good Christians we knew were too timid to help. They preferred to offer platitudes and wring their hands with gentle concern. In many ways we were invisible; our problems too incomprehensible. Surely, they thought, we must be exaggerating. The army accepted no responsibility for Stan. The Masonic Lodge in Wonthaggi asked him to leave because of our mistreatment but, essentially, we were on our own. Where, I wondered, was God?