The Varnished Untruth Page 5

  Did you have some feelings about that?

  Yes . . . enormous jealousy . . . and thoughts of ‘Why not me?’ And I bet my youngest sister Lesley felt that, too. She was highly strung like me. We called her Essie. She seemed a bit miserable and cried quite a lot, but we weren’t the kind of family that talked about feelings. The three years between us seemed like a huge gap, and I remember having a strong sense of protectiveness towards her. But she and Claire were far closer to each other than I was with either of them. I’m not exactly sure why that was, although it occurs to me now that they may have interpreted the high expectations my parents placed on me – rather than on them – as favouritism. I probably got the lion’s share of attention (for both positive and negative reasons) throughout our childhood, and I can understand that that might have been infuriating for my sisters.

  But I know now that siblings feel more rivalry towards each other when they sense there’s not enough parental love to go around – and that’s certainly how I felt. It’s weird but I’ve been thinking a lot about the Thompson Street yard, partly because it seemed to me that my parents’ nurturing abilities – such as they were – went straight into that garden. The whole area of Boronia Park was a very arid, inland place – a desert, really – but my parents worked incredibly hard to create a pretty garden, and they were rightly extremely proud of it. They set it out a bit like mini botanical gardens, even leaving the names of the various tropical shrubs attached to the stems so people could identify them (well, after all, they were in the biological field). I remember there were hibiscus bushes (yellow and pink), and poisonous pink and white oleanders about which we were given stern warnings. There were poinsettia (ditto the warnings), a camellia climbing up the sprayed concrete wall, and a crimson bottlebrush, which is an indigenous Australian shrub. I was most drawn to the wonderfully bountiful frangipani tree, with its creamy-yellow blossoms harbouring an intoxicating scent; it’s still my favourite flower. At some point a small rockery appeared in the front garden, while in the back yard there was a yellow wattle tree, a kumquat tree and a lemon tree – both dwarfed by an enormous, practical-but-unsightly, steel rotary clothes line.

  Seasonally, my parents would plant poppies, gladioli, amaryllis, marigolds and various imported spring flowers, such as pansies, beneath the patio. These took a lot of work and lasted a very short while. I don’t know why they bothered; native Australian plants were beautiful and far more hardy, although back then warratahs, kangaroo paws and banksias weren’t considered as generally desirable as they are now (I suppose there was an element of European-style neighbourly competition involved). That garden had to be watered early and late; if the sun hit the plants before the water was absorbed into their roots they’d be fried. As I lay in bed at night, after our mother had read to us and turned out the lights, I would hear a pitter patter – not of rain, but of the garden hose. After my parents died, a photo album came to me with pictures from the Thompson Street days. There are forty pictures of the house and garden, five of my sisters, and none of me (although that was probably because the album was created after I’d left home). Yes, my parents loved and tended that garden with a passion.

  You sound sad, bitter . . .

  Yes, I am. But even though the ‘hurt child’ part of me is asking, ‘Why didn’t you spend that time tending to me instead?’, my adult part understands that, in a way, they were probably just trying to recreate the lush landscape in which each had been raised; my mother in the Fijian tropics and my father, whose New Zealand family home had boasted a wonderful garden and an orchard sloping towards Takapuna Beach. I don’t imagine it had been easy for either of them to relocate to Australia.

  When our family returned to New Zealand for Christmas holidays we stayed in that Stephenson family house. It was a wooden, forties-style residence in Brown Street, Takapuna, and you could see the ocean from the back veranda. ‘There’ll be a ship along presently,’ Grandma would say, taking her late husband’s brass telescope and aiming it out towards Rangitoto, the peaked volcanic island opposite Takapuna Beach. My father’s older sister Alice, whom we called Auntie Sally, lived there alone after my paternal grandma (whom I barely remember) passed away. I always got to stay in my father’s old room, which had a lovely framed fretwork rendering of the Lord’s Prayer on the wall, as well as a beautifully illuminated document congratulating my grandfather Octavius on his much-appreciated years of service as the Postmaster in Opotiki. I loved that room. Auntie Sally would always come in and hug me goodnight . . .

  You seem happy just now . . .

  Mmm . . . Those Takapuna summers, playing on the beach with my cousins, fishing with my uncles and aunts, having afternoon tea with the whole extended family… there was no pressure to do anything or be anything other than simply children having fun. Uncle Bill and Auntie Marjorie lived next door, with my cousins Elizabeth, Brett, Alistair, Margot and Deborah. We picnicked in the orchard under shady trees heavy with ripe peaches, pears, plums, apples and guava. I still salivate when I think of the incredible taste of those naturally grown peaches and plums. I took my children to Italy some years ago in early summer and the taste of those white peaches transported me straight back to Takapuna.

  In the New Zealand outdoors there was nothing that could really hurt us – quite a consideration for children raised in Australia within biting distance of several species of indigenous killers. I eventually came to love the harshness of the Australian landscape, but as a youngster in Sydney we were always on the lookout for the savage creatures that lurked in our suburban play areas. Redback spiders were the worst; those things could jump, or so we thought. A female one’s bite could definitely kill, and antivenom was not widely available then. Oh boy, we really had to know our spiders. There were the enormous brown, furry huntsmen spiders that often crept from behind the curtains and scurried across our bedroom walls. We knew they’d bite, but wouldn’t kill us – same for the brown trapdoor spiders with their secret, spring-lidded burrows. But other eight-legged scuttlers were seriously threatening. We especially had to watch out for funnel-web spiders; to show who was boss, those aggressive, shiny brown beasts – purveyors of a lethal neurotoxin-filled bite – would actually stand on their back legs and bare their fangs.

  In New Zealand there were no poisonous snakes, unlike the highly venomous black snakes, brown snakes and tiger snakes that sunned themselves on paths we might take to a Sydney suburb bus stop (armed with all the warnings about the dangers of the natural Australian environment, as a child I remember wondering how on earth anyone ever got to reach adulthood). Nor were there any shark nets on New Zealand beaches because, apparently, any passing bitey things were too busy migrating elsewhere to bother with us. Australians were rather shark-phobic in those days. We erroneously believed that all sharks were aggressive and liked the taste of human flesh (it was only after I became an adult scuba diver that I learned that in reality most sharks are harmless unless they’re provoked or mistake you for a seal). But other Australian marine creatures could be lethal, especially salt-water crocodiles and those nasty box jellyfish you get in Queensland. In Takapuna, we suffered only mild jellyfish stings. Oh, the bees could get you, especially while stealing honey from a hive, and prickly burrs we called ‘bindy-eyes’ would imbed themselves in our bare feet. Apart from that, it was a predator-free zone. Even the sun was kinder.

  So New Zealand provided a strong sense of safety for you, not only in the physical environment, but emotionally, too, since you were surrounded by accepting relatives . . .

  Mmm . . . and there were so many cousins, aunts, uncles. I loved that feeling of being part of a big family – even though it was always so brief. I think they were a bit wary of us – they called us ‘the Australians’– but, nevertheless, I felt a sense of belonging that was . . . almost . . . tribal. Cousin Anne (my Auntie Polly’s daughter) would join us from time to time, and so would various neighbourhood chums. We’d take turns lying in the garden hammock, and playing vinyl records on Au
ntie Sally’s portable gramophone player. We all acquired the art of winding that contraption up via the handle on the side and, when the music began to sound a bit scratchy, we knew exactly how to replace the old needle. My cheeky older cousin Alistair teased me mercilessly, but I loved it because he was the closest thing to a brother I ever knew. Older boys, I decided, were really a lot of fun.

  Sometimes we all travelled north to Kerikeri to stay with Auntie Edna and Uncle Robbie. Edna was a blousy, good-humoured, chain-smoking woman with leathery skin, dark curly hair and a voice like an automatic rifle. I remember her sitting outside in her apron, gathering up my sisters and me to help her shell the peas. Her husband Robbie was a salty, taciturn man who was rarely without his sweet-smelling pipe. Very patiently, he taught me to make wonderful shell boxes, using cigar boxes, sand, varnish and small, delicate shells we found at low tide. Every now and again he would take us fishing on his wooden launch. Out in the bay, my cousins and I would dive from the boat and pick up crayfish or lobsters – well, my big cousins would pick them up; I was too afraid to touch those spiny critters with such peculiar eyes. As the sun was setting, the grown-ups would build a fire on the beach to cook them. Lobster is still my favourite food, and not because it’s swish; it reminds me of the most idyllic times of my childhood.

  At low tide we would gather in shallow water and ‘do the twist’ in the sand. When our feet met something shell-like, we’d bend down and pick up one of a variety of live ‘pippies’ (a bit like cockles), toss them in a bag, then steam them in a pot over the beach fire. Roaming around the Bay of Islands, even for those few days we had, was bliss; although such times were in sharp contrast to our normal life. They always reminded me of what we were missing out on, growing up in the Australian inland without frequent access to my benevolent aunts and uncles. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Sydney is a gorgeous, vibrant city that I appreciated more and more as I grew older – but early on I really envied my New Zealand cousins. They seemed to be happier and far more relaxed than we were.

  In those days I never knew that I was of both European and Maori descent. I am proud that my great, great grandmother was a Maori woman but my family never mentioned it to me when I was young. Although, looking back, I had some rather brown aunts, which should have offered me a clue. Auntie Sally was my favourite. She never married and seemed to devote her life to caring for others. She lived with her mother until she died. I remember her as short and roundish, with wise, empathic brown eyes and badly fitting dentures that she nervously sucked in and out of position. As a young adult she had been a school teacher. She wore sensible skirts and blouses, and lace-up shoes and, throughout the day, would add layer upon layer of white face powder on her nose, forehead and cheeks (now I wonder whether she was consciously disguising her naturally dark complexion). But, most importantly, she was clucky, sweet and endlessly kind. In contrast to what I sensed from my parents, I knew she loved me unconditionally. Sitting at her tea table, wolfing down her thinly sliced bread and butter, her perfect scones and her springy date bread, I briefly felt the world was a safe place. Under her ample, benevolent wings, I could just be me.

  Some children grow up feeling that it is unsafe to reveal their true selves. They come to understand that their job is to be what others want them to be – or there will be terrible consequences. This is not just about being good, obedient children – most parents would wish that of their offspring – you, it seems, were expected to reflect perfectly your parents . . .

  Yes! And it always seemed that if I deviated from that – expressed my individuality – I would lose their love and attention (which were sparingly meted out in any case). Ballet was an exception, though. It was tolerated, although I was expected to maintain excellence. Funny, I just remembered that I once glimpsed a picture of my mother performing – maybe even dancing – in some university show, wearing a pair of harem pants. She was very embarrassed about it. She hated her body and would rarely allow anyone to photograph her. But it did make me wonder if perhaps she had a secret longing to be in the performing arts . . .

  Hmmm . . . Children do sometimes act out a parent’s unconscious, unfulfilled desires . . .

  Ah, yes . . . She did once admit to me that she had chosen the field of biology not because it was her passion, but simply because the course was available to her for some reason or another. Perhaps I held the key to her unfulfilled desire to dance or perform; perhaps that’s why she supported my ‘dabbling in the arts’ – up to a point.

  You mentioned your mother hated her body . . . What are your thoughts about that? Do you think you might have internalized those same feelings about your own body?

  Hmmm. I never thought about that before. It’s not so much that I dislike my body – actually I feel very grateful that it has stood up to everything I’ve put it through, from childbirth to Strictly – no, it’s more that I dislike ageing. And, actually, I have specific feelings about specific bits of me. Years ago I had some liposuction on my thighs and I remember very consciously thinking, ‘I’m eliminating my mother . . .’ She had ‘thunder thighs’ because she never exercised but she really wasn’t bad looking. In fact, in her later years she looked incredibly like Annie Lennox does now. But, ugh, it makes me shudder to see Annie, even though I like and admire her and think she’s beautiful. I sat beside her on a TV show recently and felt very uncomfortable for those personal reasons. I mean, obviously I wasn’t about to say, ‘Hey Annie, I’m avoiding you because you look exactly like my mother!’

  But Mum just wasn’t . . . mumish. She seemed cold and judgmental, and her smile always seemed forced. Even nowadays, when someone wraps me in his or her arms and holds me with the genuine tenderness I absolutely melt, while at the same time I feel imbued with longing and pain for what I missed out on.

  There are many ways to be a deprived child . . .

  Yeah, and that’s got to be the worst. I would rather have gone hungry. When I first began to study psychology I learned about Harry Harlow’s famous series of experiments. You know the ones?

  Mmm . . . conducted between 1957 and 1963 at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He removed baby rhesus monkeys from their mothers and had them ‘raised’ by two kinds of wire ‘mother’ machines that dispensed milk, one made of bare mesh wire and the other covered with soft terrycloth. He found that the baby monkeys clung to the terrycloth mother whether or not it provided them with food . . .

  Right! He essentially showed that a lack of contact comfort is psychologically stressful . . .

  Prior to Harlow’s work, people actually thought that emotions were unimportant, and that simply providing food for a child was the most important way to create a strong mother–child bond. But Harlow showed that it was actually the intimate body contact (with either mother or father) that strengthened the bond . . .

  Damn. This understanding emerged a long time after I really needed it! If only Harlow had done his revolutionary ‘study of love’ earlier, I – and millions of other people – might have grown up much happier.

  Well, when you were born, the prevailing beliefs were that it was better to limit or avoid bodily contact so as to avoid spoiling children . . .

  My parents almost certainly held those views! It was the curse of the WASP, wasn’t it, the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. To be honest, it was incredibly helpful to understand finally that they did not necessarily withhold love from me because I was unloveable . . .

  That is commonly how children interpret physical coldness . . .

  . . . but rather, because they intellectually thought that was the best way to raise me. Of course, there was also the fact that my father thought it was OK to hit us, so I suppose I was physically terrified of him . . . That’s another thing – in those days, people didn’t know that smacking children is an ineffective way of disciplining them, not to mention teaching them to be violent and being wrong on so many levels. Anyway, I had a terribly strong, visceral reaction to learning about Harlow’s studies – it explained so much
about myself.

  You’re not alone. A clinical psychology degree course always contains material that triggers personal reactions; it’s always much more than an academic exercise, and creates emotional learning and growth. The toilets of any good psychology department have a steady flow of crying, shaking students, privately experiencing catharses, epiphanies, and facing their demons in various ways. It’s just an unofficial part of the curriculum, and essentially a good thing . . .

  At least Auntie Sally hugged me. Besides her, one other adult in my life provided true, non-judgmental sanctuary: my mother’s mother, my grandmother Annie Thomas. I adored Nanna, as we called her. At some point, after her life as a missionary in Fiji, she came to live with us in Thompson Street. I remember the thick stockings and high-heeled, black, lace-up brogues in which she stomped up to the shops, even in summer, and her long, grey hair which was always rolled up under a hairnet. My sisters and I would watch with great interest when she removed, bathed and replaced her glass eye.

  That sounds rather bizarre . . . As a child, what did you make of that?

  Well, we got used to it, like it was normal. But I felt dreadfully sorry for her. She told me a surgeon had made a mistake and irreparably damaged her eye during a cataract operation. She actually seemed rather childlike, as if she’d always been looked after and never quite grown up . . . In fact, my mother treated her a bit like a child . . .

  That must have been an uncomfortable household dynamic for you to observe . . .

  I didn’t really think about it consciously. Not until recently. I did feel very protective of Nanna though, and I knew she felt the same about me. Our house was small, so we were all rather on top of each other. My parents eventually extended the place so they would have a larger room, Lesley and Claire would share the second bedroom, and Nanna and I would both have our own, small rooms. In Nanna’s sat a carved sandalwood chest she had brought from the islands. Occasionally she would open it and out would fly the most alluring scents of the Pacific – coconut, palm, jasmine and sweet woods. Inside lay a treasure trove of intricately woven Fijian fans, a terrifying war club, a lamp made from a large, orange-pink triton shell and black-and-tan coconut mats. This chest held for me all the mystery of the ocean, the call of exotic places, and the thrill of travel and adventure. It held the promise of a future abroad.