From Strength to Strength Page 17

  One night Charles was late returning home. The girls and I were out watching the skies and listening for the noise of the engine. We were also watching a black wall of weather approaching from the northeast. Charles finally appeared in the north. He and the storm were neck and neck. He made it to the end of the airstrip in front of the storm, but not the wind. Every time he put the little Supercub down, the wind would lift it up again before he could cut the motor and tie it down.

  The children and I were watching this ‘round and round the mulberry bush’ when Charles beckoned to me to come onto the airstrip. During his next brief landing he shouted, ‘Jump on the struts!’ I just stared as he swooped into the air again.

  He needed more weight to keep the plane on the ground until he could tie it down. If he turned off the engine and a gust of wind hit, it could flip the plane over. With my extra weight, he could taxi to the tie-downs, cut the engines and tie the plane down in between gusts.

  Charles and the storm approached the strip again. He landed the plane, taxied towards the tie-downs, and screamed at me to jump. I did and along came a gust of wind and off we went, Charles comfortably in the cockpit and me wrapped around the struts. He had the window open and we were only a few feet apart.

  ‘Hold on, we’ll try again.’

  The ‘hold on’ part of the instructions was superfluous. He banked gently and came in again. We landed, and he taxied at high speed to the tie-downs and cut the engine. Charles and I quickly tied each wing, then the tail, and she was safe. Not a moment too soon—as we ran to the homestead heavy rain lashed the valley.

  Along with the approaching wet season came poor radio contact. Apart from our plane, the two-way radio was our only contact with the outside world. By 1965, the Flying Doctor base had done wonders with the system which provided help to all the isolated people in the North but nevertheless, come sunset, and the last radio session at five-thirty, we had no contact with the base until eight the next morning. If any medical treatment was required after five-thirty, it just had to wait. The Royal Flying Doctor (RFD) was in the process of rectifying this situation by installing an emergency alarm system at the hospital. The station needing help would set off the alarm in the hospital and a doctor would be available to talk to them over the radio.

  The alarm was a sensitive mechanism, set off only by an oddly-shaped, two-sided whistle. Because of the skill required to set off the alarm, we had to engage in what became known as whistle practice. This was very important because if we had to use it, it would be in an emergency, but the whistle practices over the radio were really something. The base controller took it very seriously and demanded that we all (every station on that particular network) attend whistle practice. Suddenly all the men who used the radio all the time were not available, so it was up to us women.

  Our base controller tried, really tried, and we really tried too, but it was no good. As each woman collapsed in uncontrollable fits of laughter, unable to speak or blow, he would move on to the next one, only to have the same thing happen.

  Just imagine someone directing you over a two-way radio, ‘Blow ten seconds on the long whistle and six seconds on the short whistle. Now, dearies, good healthy blows! No beeps, nice long boops!’

  One day I was in such hysterics listening to the others that I dropped the whistle down the back of the filing cabinet and when it came to my turn, I had to explain that my whistle was temporarily out of commission. I was told to put it on a string and attach it to the radio.

  Another time I was rolling around in the radio room in stitches when Charles walked in. He was immediately alarmed, thinking I was in pain. I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell him that I was alright. He picked me up and whisked me off to the bedroom in a panic. By the time I finally stopped laughing long enough to explain the situation and got back to the radio, I had missed my turn. I was reprimanded during the next whistle session.

  After some weeks our controller gave up in disgust. I am happy to say that when an emergency did occur, there was no giggling or laughing and the whistle blowers set off the alarm admirably. In fact, one even blew a fuse.

  So with a reliable twenty-four-hour medical service and our own plane, we settled in for our second wet. This time we had lots of building materials, so during that wet Pompeii finally turned into part of the house. Just putting on the roof made an amazing difference. All the plants I had put in that year turned into live, healthy green things and the big tin shed finally started to look as if someone cared about it.

  CHAPTER 11

  1966-1971

  In typical fashion, Charles suddenly announced one day that we were going to America! He wanted to spend a few years with his mother and he wanted the children to see his home in Maryland.

  Our manager, John Nicolson, was now our partner, so with John to take care of the station during our absence I was instructed to prepare for our departure.

  We were about to go from the tropical heat of December in the north of Australia to mid-winter in the northern States of America. The last we had heard was that they were snowed in by blizzards and we had no winter clothes whatsoever.

  So I took the children with me to Sydney, to visit my family and to get some warm clothes together. Charles was to follow in a few weeks when all was running smoothly at the station and we would then leave for America and be with his mother in time for Christmas.

  While in Sydney, our director called and said he wanted to take me to lunch. He told me to meet him at the studio. I arrived and was shown into a small viewing room and there on the screen was our movie! It was really quite good. Charles, who in person was as confident as hell, showed up on film as nervous as a kitten, and I, who was so nervous that I had to sit during filming, looked as if I had been before cameras all my life. Bill declared me the star of the show. I was a little pleased. He also said the film would be shown nationwide, so I went home and told Mum she would see her daughter on television. Of course Mum told half of Australia to watch. I had already left for America when it was finally shown, but Mum proudly informed me by letter that everyone thought it was terrific.

  As usual our departure was not without incident. The day before we were due to leave Sydney the airline went on strike. Luckily our travel agent was able to rebook us before the rush, but we had to go almost right around the world to get there. It took so long I nearly completed a sweater for Charles.

  We finally made it to London, but boy, were they in a mess. Three major airlines on strike and Heathrow almost closed in with fog. Our New York flight took off three hours behind schedule and we only made it by five minutes as we were lost in the fog at the airport. We arrived in New York and went from heavy fog to complete blizzard. In fact, we were the second-last plane to land—the rest were rerouted to Detroit. When we went to collect our luggage, it was discovered that it was on a different flight, and that the airline had no idea which flight.

  After four hours of running around we found all but two suitcases. The airline people promised to find them and deliver them to our door. They were, but not before they went all around America. We had a two-hour stopover in New York before our flight to Baltimore, so Charles arranged a madcap taxi ride around the city. The driver was marvellous. We saw everything possible, including the Empire State Building, and rounded off the tour with lunch at a fabulous little oyster bar.

  After one more flight and an eighty-mile drive we were finally there. Fortunately a snowstorm set in for the first six days so we had time to recover before facing all the family and friends.

  After too many years in the tropics, our first winter in Maryland was delightful. Charles’s mother lives on the eastern shore of Maryland, on the Choptank River, surrounded by natural woods, wheat and cornfields. It was a place you could stay forever. The children had a pony and would ride into the woods to watch deer and other wild animals. After Christmas they started at the little country school and made many new friends, and Charles saw a lot of his old friends.

 
In the summers we did a lot of sailing and I finally mastered the art. I even graduated to racing. We had some funny times when I would forget the correct sailing terminology or pull the wrong halyard, but Charles still managed to win a few cups, and he had to admit he couldn’t have done it without me. I was pretty nifty whipping the jib around on a tack.

  My biggest faux pas was trying to set my first spinnaker. We were under full sail and Charles was directing me on how to bag the terrible thing. We were about to round the mark, so as well as the ‘on the spot lesson’, I was working against time.

  I raced up on deck, holding all the ends, praying I did not forget which were the bottom ropes, otherwise I would hoist the sail upside down. The entire time Charles was shouting directions.

  I attached the sail to the various lines that went back to the winches and attached the halyard to the last hole left in the sail, with fingers crossed it was the correct hole.

  ‘Stand by, we’re coming up to the mark, now don’t mess this up, we’re in the lead, and don’t lose the spinnaker bag overboard when you hoist the sail!’ Charles yelled from the cockpit.

  We were neck and neck with the other boat, but we were on the inside closest to the mark, with the wind. If we went around without a hitch and broke out the spinnaker we would take the other boat’s wind and gain a very large lead—it all depended on my first spinnaker hoist!

  Charles was first boat around the mark, perfectly timed. ‘Drop the jib! Now!’ I sprang into action, dropped the jib and quickly dragged it in before it hit the water.

  While I was still occupied with this task, Charles started screaming, ‘Break out the spinnaker!’

  Fine for him, standing in the cockpit holding the tiller and smoking a cigar, while I was running around the foredeck like a demented chicken.

  ‘Hurry, we’re losing speed!’ I had a few remarks I wanted to shout back, but I needed all my wind to hoist the spinnaker.

  Up she went and cracked right on the wind, what a beautiful sight, I sagged to the deck in relief.

  ‘What’s that!’ he screamed.

  ‘It’s the spinnaker, you bloody nitwit! What do you think it is? You just told me to hoist it!’

  I looked further up the mast to where his finger was pointing and there at the top of the mast was the spinnaker bag. In my haste I had tied it to the top of the halyard, so we were flying the spinnaker and bag, not done in sailing circles.

  While I was still looking at the flying spinnaker bag Charles screamed, ‘You forgot the pole!’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? You didn’t mention any pole!’

  ‘On the deck, on the deck!’ At my feet was a ten-foot pole. I looked up at the fitting on the mast. That was within my reach and capabilities, but the other end, Charles informed me, had to be attached to the corner of the spinnaker flying about ten feet above the deck.

  That day, apart from hoisting my first spinnaker, I also introduced the loose-footed spinnaker and spinnaker bag flying. Most of the leg home I was ten feet above the deck airborne on the spinnaker ropes, trying to hook the lines under the two cleats on the deck. Then I sat and played the spinnaker so it did not spill.

  We won, but the second boat protested that we were carrying extra sail. The sailing committee could not find anything in the rule book about a spinnaker bag, so they gave us the race.

  My sailing career was put on temporary hold when, in the middle of the winter of 1969, a beautiful baby girl arrived, our number three. She was that one in a million pill baby. This time I made Charles stay with me right up to the last breath. I think it did the trick because he didn’t bring up the subject of having children again.

  We all enjoyed our new little doll and life settled into a very pleasant pattern for the next year or so, but alas it was not to last.

  I drove into Easton, the nearest town, to have my hair set for a dinner party. I had not made an appointment so I just walked into one of the many hairdressing salons and asked if they could fit me in. The response was typically American and friendly.

  ‘Come in, now you just sit yourself down and rest a while, I’ll be with you before you know.’ She had a big broad smile, all teeth, was blonde and fitted her job image perfectly.

  I didn’t feel like talking so when she asked, ‘Are you travelling, just passing through?’ I replied, ‘Yes.’ I thought this would stop any conversation, but I was wrong. There were endless questions, where, when, how long, why. She started to wash my hair but excused herself when the phone rang. It was then that the chatter of the two women next to me started to filter through.

  ‘. . . the latest, his name is Charles . . .’ My heart started to sink. My first reaction was, ‘Don’t listen,’ but it would have been like saying, ‘Don’t breathe’. They were talking about another woman so at least I wasn’t sitting next to his latest affair. I suppose I had known deep down in my heart that there must have been women since the ‘great winding stair affair’, but I had taken the ‘head in the sand’ approach. But here it was presented to me on a platter. The heartache started all over again.

  The conversation came to me in waves. She had met him in Washington; they laughed as one said ‘she’ had worn out four sets of tyres since the affair began. My mind went back over the past months, all the times Charles had finished too late to drive back from Washington, calls at nine-thirty at night to say he’d just finished a very important meeting and was very tired, there were more important meetings in the morning as they didn’t finish, so he’d stay overnight and come home early. Or, the weather was so bad the roads were impassable. And so on.

  ‘. . . from overseas . . . but American . . . married of course.’

  I stopped the hairdresser, saying I had forgotten another appointment, could I come back in an hour.

  I fled to my car and burst into tears. I sat there going over and over my life with Charles—sadness, revenge, hate, I experienced all these emotions and many more. But revenge surfaced the winner. I decided to fight fire with fire.

  Men regularly made advances towards me, but being completely in love with my husband, I’d never been interested. That was about to change.

  Having made this momentous decision, I gathered myself together and dried my eyes. If I was about to play the ‘femme fatale’ I had to look the part, and wet hair and red puffy eyes would not be appropriate. Having conquered the hair, I went home and, with a permanent smile to hide my sorrow, I chatted and dressed with my cad of a husband. It is an interesting scenario, watching your husband dress, knowing he is about to meet his ‘current’. No, now I would consider it interesting; then, it was heart-wrenching.

  It was a large dinner party, about forty people, but it didn’t take me long to single her out. I just watched Charles. I had to admit he was smooth. He cruised around the room charming every girl on the way, but finally lingered with one a little longer. And even though I was on the other side of the room, I could follow his lines almost word for word. They were so familiar.

  There were a few men there who had, over the months, given me the ‘eye’. One my eyes rested on had recently finalised his divorce. I decided he was the least complicated, so I took a deep breath, a large gulp of gin and tonic and headed into the fray. I’d certainly read the signals right. All I did was smile and he nearly carried me off to the bedroom.

  Human nature never ceases to amaze me. There was Charles, showering attention on this female on the other side of the room, but the moment I started laughing and talking to another man, he was at my elbow in the flash of an eye, enquiring what I was doing.

  ‘I’m playing your game.’ I had consumed a few gin and tonics for Dutch courage, but I was certainly a long way from being intoxicated.

  Charles grabbed my arm and said quietly in my ear, through clenched teeth, ‘You’re drunk, we’re going home!’ I wrenched my arm free, and told him I was not drunk, and I was not going home. I was going to have a good time and why didn’t he just go back to his new interest on the other side of th
e room and leave me alone.

  ‘Don’t you like it when the shoe is on the other foot, Charlie boy?’ It was then that I learned I couldn’t play serious games with Charles. When I refused to leave, he went quite crazy. I turned my back on him, saying I would have someone drive me home when I was ready. He grabbed me around the neck in a half-nelson grip, twisted my arm up my back and propelled me out of the house. Then he threw me into the car and skidded out of the driveway in a shower of gravel.

  I was in shock. I had just seen a side of my husband I did not know existed. Would this happen every time I crossed him? Charles was a great actor and he was always positioning, as if life was a game of chess—all his moves had a purpose. But looking back now I realise he was just a spoilt boy having a tantrum.

  He drove home like a maniac, I think to scare me, but it was in vain. I couldn’t generate any emotion at all. Neither of us said a word.

  However, by the time the car finally screeched to a halt I was fuming. I jumped out and slammed the door. How dare he treat me like that? As far as I was concerned that was it. Love or no love, his unfaithfulness was bad enough, but this was more than I was prepared to tolerate. Good heavens, I’d only smiled at the man, what would he have done if I’d kissed him? I went upstairs and locked myself in the children’s room.

  He knocked on the door several times, saying he wanted to speak to me. I told him there was nothing to talk about. He said if I didn’t open the door he would be forced to do something.

  ‘What will it be this time, Charlie? The gun to the head? Maybe you can shoot the door down. I’m sure you’d like the children to see you shoot your way in and then drag me away in a half-nelson. Go ahead, Charles, they’re awake, strut your stuff.’ There was silence. I kissed the girls and told them to go back to sleep. I said everything was alright but mummy was not speaking to daddy tonight and I would sleep there with them. They settled down and were asleep again within minutes. Not so mummy.