The Summer of ’82 Page 10

  How I hated this Chris guy. He had the best-looking girl in the world – okay, in Mildura – but he wanted more.

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ I said.

  ‘No worries,’ said Malcolm. ‘He thinks he’s so bloody good. Just ’cause he’s almost finished his apprenticeship.’

  So Chris was a tradie – that’d be right. The young sparky or chippy turns up in his V8, flashing a bit of cash and wearing a tank top, and suddenly all the girls are talking to Mr ‘I work with my hands’. He thinks he’s a man just because he’s had his pubic hair set on fire by his boss.

  Sonia came out of the house. Even though she was wearing Minnie Mouse pyjama bottoms and a green windcheater with a pony drawn in Hobbytex on the front, she still looked absolutely gorgeous. ‘Hey! You’re early.’

  ‘Yeah, I had no one to play table tennis with at the caravan park.’

  She laughed. Great – a good first reaction.

  ‘I’ll just get changed. Malcolm will look after you.’

  Malcolm smirked again and gave me the thumbs-up. No matter what happened with Sonia, Malcolm and I were pretty tight already.

  I waited what seemed like ages for Sonia to get ready. I figured then that because I was so special to her, she was taking extra time. Turns out I was wrong. Now, I realise most young women take a long time to get ready, all the time. But I had grown up in a house full of boys, and we could get ready in twenty seconds. Pull some pants on, grab a shirt and run your hand through your hair. To me, girls were truly a mystery, one that smelt a little bit like Impulse.

  Poor Mum – she had wanted a girl from the day she decided to have children. Every time she got pregnant she would pray for a girl. Back then, there were no ultrasounds, so the sex of the child was always unknown until it was born. When Mum was pregnant with Glenn and me the doctor suspected she might be carrying twins, so he X-rayed her! The first question Mum asked after her dose of radiation was, ‘Are they girls?’ The doctor shrugged and said it was hard to tell. Still, that dose of radiation might explain a few of my problems. Mum even picked out names for her beautiful twin girls – we were going to be Michelle and Susan.

  When Sonia eventually came back we went for a walk. We chatted easily but I avoided issues such as her boyfriend Chris. She invited me to have lunch with the family. We sat in the dining room, which I suspected was rarely used. I don’t know if it was because of my presence or because it was a public holiday, but Sonia’s mum had made roast lamb. I felt like I was having lunch with the Waltons (‘Goodnight, John-Boy!’).

  Compared to my family, the Edmunds seemed quite conservative. Everyone had got dressed up for lunch. Sonia’s dad was wearing a jacket, her mum had a dress on, and even Malcolm was wearing a nice shirt. Compare this to our average Sunday lunch: Mum would be fussing about, constantly getting more food, Mark would be stuffing a ham roll into his face while he rocked back and forth to the Dead Kennedys on his Walkman, and Dad would be sitting in his shorts and thongs and yelling at Mark: ‘Take that bloody thing off your head, you wanker! It’s family time!’ The Edmunds’ Sunday lunch felt like a cross between a job interview and that very occasional dinner we had when Dad’s boss came and we had to be on our best behaviour. On those nights Mum always served spaghetti bolognaise – how exotic.

  ‘So, David,’ Mrs Edmunds said, ‘Sonia tells me you’ve just finished HSC?’

  ‘Yes, I’m aiming to go to university next year, probably to do law.’

  ‘Like your brother?’ Malcolm said, backing me up.

  ‘Did you do maths or a language?’ Mrs Edmunds asked.

  I knew straight away that this was a trick question. In 1982 the only universities that offered law in Victoria were Melbourne and Monash, and to get into either of them you had to have done a language or maths. Mitcham High wasn’t big on languages. We did a bit of Indonesian – Selamat pagi was about the limit of my knowledge – and I had failed vegie maths in Year 11 so there was no chance of me doing maths in Year 12. I had to come up with a trick answer.

  ‘Um, neither,’ I said. ‘So I’m hoping to go to ANU, or maybe even Hobart Uni.’

  But Mrs Edmunds was a high school teacher, and there was no tricking her. ‘Yes, but I think you need maths or a language for those courses too.’

  I changed tack. ‘Mum and Dad would like me to do law,’ I said, ‘but actually I’d rather do something that’s more community-based.’ I paused for effect. ‘Like teaching.’

  Sonia’s mum finally cracked a smile. ‘I’m sure Sonia told you I’m a teacher?’

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ I said. ‘My dad’s a teacher too, so it kind of runs in the family.’ Okay, he was a trades teacher, and I didn’t really want to do teaching as I was going to be a rock star, but I was trying to make a good impression. Next I thought I’d add a bit of social awareness to the mix. ‘I’ve spent most of my holidays working in a factory, and I can see how education is so important. My fellow factory workers didn’t have the opportunities I’ve had. As you know, it takes just one good teacher to make a difference.’

  All this must have worked, because as Mrs Edmunds came out with the pavlova, which had peppermint crisp on the top (yum), Mr Edmunds made an announcement. ‘David, you seem like a nice boy. Anne and I have had a talk, and we don’t want you staying down at the caravan park.’

  This was sounding good. Spare room? Or maybe I could take the top bunk above Malcolm. Even the couch in the lounge looked comfortable.

  ‘So we’re happy for you to pitch the tent in our backyard.’

  This was not the best result, but still, I was going to be closer to Sonia. Not first base, but at least I could see first base.

  Sonia’s dad drove me back to the caravan park and I took down the tent, which I then re-pitched in their backyard. Just as well I was a trained and experienced Scout! Sonia had to go out – I assumed with her other man, Chris. So I just hung out with Malcolm, who took me to the local tourist attraction, The Aquacoaster, which was just a fancy name for a water slide. We had a great time and then went home, where we waited for Sonia to come for dinner, but she was late – probably more fights with that arsehole Chris.

  I stayed up waiting for Sonia to come home, which seemed ridiculous as I was now acting like her father. She came home eventually and we had a warm Milo together, even though I was more of a chocolate Quik kind of guy – it was a much hipper warm milk drink. Again I avoided the elephant in the room – I don’t have to mention his name again, do I? I asked Sonia to walk me out to my tent, where I asked her for a hug. I went in for the pash but she pulled away, fleeing back to the safety of her house. I was left to slink into my tent, with my extra tent pole. I couldn’t help but feel I was back to square one with Sonia.

  I ended up staying five days with the Edmunds family, and got on really well with everyone. I even met Chris and we had a great chat; turned out he liked cool music too. But everything with Sonia went downhill after that second night – she began to seem outwardly hostile towards me.

  I sent my good friend and spy Malcolm in to find out what the problem was. When he came back he didn’t have good news. ‘Sonia said you tried to kiss her like Chris does,’ he said, ‘and he’s the only one allowed to do that.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Malcolm,’ I said. Then I felt bad that I’d made him talk to his own sister about kissing.

  I asked myself again: what would my heroes do? I lay in my tent and imagined what was happening to me happening to Bob or Paul or Simon; would they put up with this treatment? No way, man! They’re a lot better than this. Would Peter Garrett be lying in a tent in a backyard, pining after some girl who obviously didn’t like him? For a start, he probably wouldn’t fit in this two-man tent. But what did he say in that song? ‘Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.’

  Years later, I found out that was a quote from some Mexican revolutionary called Zapata. I knew this name because there was a Mexican restaurant in Melbourne called Zapata’s. That always seemed a bit weird to me
– come and have some nachos at a place named after the leader of a Mexican revolution who was shot for the cause. Don’t know if he would’ve approved of their ‘Half Price Taco Tuesday’. Anyway, Zapata – the man, not the restaurant – was right.

  But I hadn’t just imagined kissing Sonia behind the Guide Hall – she had definitely liked me then. Maybe I had simply been a bit of excitement for her in the big city. After all, I was the keyboardist in probably the only rock band she had ever seen live. She might’ve thought she was kissing the equivalent of Pierre Pierre from Pseudo Echo, or Scott Carne from Kids in the Kitchen. She probably expected me to get in my sports car and drive off to my penthouse or my yacht at the marina. No wonder she’d looked shocked when Dad arrived to pick me up in the station wagon.

  I got up early and left a note thanking the Edmunds for their hospitality. As I walked away I saw Malcolm looking out his window. I gave him a wave and he gave me the thumbs-up. He had been a good friend and an excellent spy. Maybe one day he would get a job at ASIO.

  I caught the train home, discovering in the process that it wasn’t in fact an overnight service, as John from the station had told me. But it was a long journey that took all day, so I had a lot of time to think. I looked out the window and said under my breath, ‘Stuff you, Sonia. And stuff you, Mildura, with your Aquacoaster. We all know it’s just a water slide.’

  In the world before iPads, iPhones, kindles, laptops and portable DVD players, a long train journey meant you had a lot of time to ponder your future. I’d told Sonia’s parents I was going to do law or teaching, and on the other hand I was telling Sonia I was going to be a rock star. But what was I actually going to do with myself? I was a bit homesick, to be honest, and I looked forward to eating Mum’s cooking and getting some clean clothes.

  But that was not to be. I got home and found that Mum and Dad had now gone down to the beach house for a few weeks. Did this mean Mark was in charge again? No, because Trevor had returned from New Zealand with his new girlfriend, Brenda, so now he was in charge.

  He sat me down at the kitchen table and explained the changes he was making to the household. ‘Brenda and I have decided to run this house as a socialist republic.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re going to pool all our money and then buy what we need, like a commune.’

  ‘Right … so how much money have you got, Trev?’

  ‘None. We spent it on our airfares.’

  So in other words, they wanted my money to buy stuff. Suddenly that tent in Mildura didn’t seem so bad.

  Being the oldest of the O’Neil boys, Trev was always the leader of the gang. It’s no wonder that firstborns become prime ministers, generals, dictators and probably serial killers. They learn from a young age how to control their younger siblings and crush their dreams. Trevor loved nothing more than playing Monopoly with his three younger brothers: he would buy our properties and bankrupt us, then make us beg him to give us back Old Kent Road.

  Trevor was good at everything. Things I found hard – like long division, skateboarding and talking to girls – Trev did with ease. He was good-looking, could play football and would always get the lead role in the school musicals. Was there anything Trev couldn’t do? Probably not. In high school he wanted Skyhooks to play at our end-of-year dance. The teachers said it was a ridiculous idea – as if one of the biggest bands in Australia would perform for a bunch of suburban schoolkids.

  Actually, we had got some bands to play at our school. I remember seeing The Aliens (‘Confrontation’) and MEO 245 (‘Lady Love’); they played as part of our lunchtime disco, which was held in the gymnasium. We didn’t always have bands; when Grease came out, some drama students got up on the stage and acted out the whole movie to the soundtrack. Wookey was in that, so my mates and I just yelled stuff at him, but secretly we all wanted to be up there kissing Sandy, who was being played by one of the school spunks, Sally Duffy.

  Anyway, Trevor campaigned for Skyhooks to play and organised a fundraising drive to raise the money. He would walk around at lunchtime with his minions and shake collecting cans in kids’ faces, making them give up their last twenty cents, which they were probably planning to spend on a Barney Banana ice-cream. Eventually he got enough money and Skyhooks played at our high school. (To be honest, the fund-raising took so long that Shirl and Red had left the band by the time they came, but they still had three of the original members and they did all their hits.)

  I can only remember Trev crying once, and that was on 11 November 1975. I came home from school and he was standing at the back door with tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘You’ll never believe what happened.’

  Jesus, had Suzie the cat been run over by the Crystal Drinks truck again?

  ‘They’ve sacked Gough,’ he blurted out.

  Even at my young age I knew this was bad news. We were an Australian Labor Party family through and through. Dad had once voted Liberal – he had just turned eighteen and joined the air force, and his sergeant told all the young privates to vote Liberal as they ‘looked after the defence forces’. But after that, Dad said, he came to his senses. Once he met Mum, the daughter of a card-carrying member of the Communist Party and a wharfie, it was ALP all the way.

  Trev always got into the political issues of the day. He once went with Mum and Dad to hear Gough speak at a local park, and he wore an ‘It’s Time’ badge to school. In fact, growing up in Mitcham, we barely even knew anyone who voted Liberal. Mum and Dad had their suspicions about a few families – like the Werners down the road, who had an in-ground pool. And I remember Mum coming home from the shops one day and saying, ‘I think Roger the Amcal chemist votes Liberal.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, he’s got a poster of Malcolm Fraser in his front window.’

  We switched chemist from that day on.

  Gough really did appeal to working-class people like my parents, who could see that he was trying to make life better for families like ours. So that night at dinner it was like a family friend had died. From that point on, Malcolm Fraser and John Kerr became hate figures for both Kev and Trev. As did the Carlton Football Club, which Dad saw as an extension of the Liberal Party. Dad was a one-eyed Collingwood supporter. When Carlton was playing, he would scream at the replay, ‘Bloody Liberals, the lot of ’em!’

  Dad went to the footy every Saturday, usually by himself. We boys had been a few times, but they’d been such scary experiences we never wanted to go back. Dad would yell, argue and swear at the top of his voice. It was obviously a great release for him: all the frustrations of being a father of four boys would come out.

  Noddy was also mad for Collingwood, and sometimes he would get a lift with Dad. One day they were in a traffic jam at VFL Park. Now, VFL Park was a failed effort to bring big-time Australian Rules footy to the outer suburbs. The VFL simply dropped a massive stadium in the outer-eastern suburb of Mulgrave. Public transport? Oh yeah, they forgot about that. (They even had the Grand Final there once. This was the very special time when Angry Anderson from Rose Tattoo stood in the back of the Batmobile and sang ‘Bound for Glory’. I think that day sealed the ground’s fate.) So Noddy and Kev were stuck getting out of the car park. After half an hour they passed a car that had broken down and stopped the traffic. It belonged to an elderly Italian gentleman, who was standing beside it with the bonnet up. Kev had to pass comment. ‘Put a match to it, Giuseppe!’ he yelled out the window. Ah, 1970s humour with a racist twist.

  Trev, being the oldest, copped a lot of flak from Mum and Dad. He had to pave the way for his three younger brothers in all areas, including music, fashion and hair length. Dad always had short hair, being ex-air force, while Mum often sported a very fashionable root perm. But from about the age of thirteen Trev grew his hair long to resemble his idols: the blokes from Status Quo, KISS and Cheap Trick. From the back Trev looked a little bit like Farrah Fawcett. Every morning at breakfast he and Mum would have the
same argument.

  ‘Trevor, you need to get your haircut today,’ Mum would begin.

  Trevor, his face in his Coco Pops, would mumble something like, ‘All the kids have it.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care. No son of mine is having such long hair.’

  ‘Mum, it’s my hair, I can do what I want with it.’

  ‘Look at you – it’s falling into your breakfast! Tell him, Kevin; when he’s under our roof he has to do what we say.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dad would say, looking up from his newspaper. ‘You look like a bloody girl. And not a good-looking one at that.’

  ‘Well, Mum, you always wanted a girl,’ Trev would snap back. ‘Now you’ve got one.’

  ‘Just get it cut, Trevor!’

  ‘Wanker.’ Dad would always get the final word.

  A variation of this argument took place every day for at least four years, until at last Trev moved out. Now he was back, and he’d brought a new set of rules with him. But things were about to get even worse.

  I walked into my bedroom, which I shared with Glenn, and the first thing I noticed was a white shirt hanging on the end of his bed. On it was a Brashs name badge that had ‘Glenn’ stamped on it. So he’d got a job at Brashs … good for him, but jealous couldn’t describe how I really felt.

  The next thing I saw was Glenn himself, lying in his single bed under his Smurfs doona cover, with a girl cuddling up to him. He looked up when I walked in. ‘Oh, Liz, this is my twin brother, David.’

  She glanced at me and giggled.

  Get stuffed, I thought. Way to rub in my misery.

  THE LUNATICS (HAVE TAKEN OVER ASYLUM)

  Trev’s socialist republic was no paradise – it couldn’t have been further from Cuba. In fact it was more like Romania on a bad day. Unless you consider having canned spaghetti for tea every night and falling asleep to Trev jamming with his mates in the rumpus room some kind of paradise. And there was no escape in my bedroom: Glenn was there, and when Glenn was there, so was Liz. God knows what was happening under that doona.