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 14th 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?
CHAPTER 5
STARTING WORK
Mum reluctantly conceded the time had come for me to find work. I felt responsible for the misery because by now even the sight of me set Stan off. I applied to the Archie’s Creek Butter Factory and was offered a job in the butter room. I was assigned the position of box maker for four pounds seven shillings and sixpence a week. Mum arranged my board with a rural family over the phone. I would pay four pounds per week. Sight unseen, one Sunday shortly after the birth of my new brother Geoffrey I was driven to my new living arrangements in Blackwood Forrest about 7 miles from Archie’s Creek on the steep Loch to Wonthaggi Road.
It was mid afternoon as Mum and I drove the Wolsley over the hills to Blackwood Forest. The gravity of our circumstances weighed heavily on us. Mum was upset that I was leaving school so soon but I was relieved and excited to be starting work and free at last from my father. We arrived around four o’clock and I was introduced to an elderly couple, Bert and Pearl. I was hoping there would be some discussion as to how I would get to work the following day, but after wishing me well, Mum drove away and left me to see the bungalow I was to occupy.
It was a pleasant little room behind the house. Inside was a bed, a chair, sideboard with drawers and a one bar radiator. Bert and Pearl retired to the house and I was left to explore my surroundings and unpack my few belongings. I found the wood heap behind the bungalow and started to split some wood to fill in time before being called to dinner. I thought it would be appreciated since this was a chore everyone I knew hated.
As if by telepathy, Pearl offered me the use of her bicycle to go to work. After the meal, I pumped up the tires of the old ladies bike in readiness for the next day. Next morning, my alarm went off at 6 a.m. I had a generous breakfast and set off for work – not having ever been over the road before. The ride of about 7 miles proved exhausting because the bike had only a foot brake and no gears. The going was tough, particularly where the sand built up into thick piles on the side of the road and corners. The steepest hills I had to walk up. I arrived on time to start just before eight o’clock. My working life was about to begin.
The foreman was ‘Bluey Bayliss’, a pleasant, quietly spoken man who directed me to the ceiling space above the butter room where the boxes were made and put down a chute for use below. My task was to reconstruct both new and used cardboard boxes with staples in the bottom and then paste labels on the side before feeding them down the chute. For a change, I made wooden boxes by folding them up and nailing them together. I mention the detail of this because my loathing for the job was in a way the source of my determination to find something, anything that might possibly be more interesting. The loft was freezing when cold and stifling hot in summer. The factory’s appetite for boxes was insatiable – it was the only job on my horizon. I was told later, positions like this, where no alternative to survival exist are character building.
The Archie’s Creek Butter Factory was in a deep valley with a long steep road up the hills on either side. The nightly necessity of riding home after an arduous day was taxing me heavily. In winter it was dark before I got home and I had no light on my bike. I contemplated
