built by convicts that served no purpose at all: constructed in the searing West Australian heat for the purpose of keeping the men busy.
On either side of the entrance were two palm trees planted by my grandfather to mark the birth of his twin sons. The gardens had once been well established. The homestead was more Australian than the European style of Ellendale but retained the same sense of dry isolation, the surrounding landscape scrubby and monotonous. This would have been a lonely place to grow up. At least in town Stow had neighbours nearby and dozens of cousins to play with. My father, I imagined, would have had few people to talk to outside the immediate family.
In another family, my father might have reminisced about the wind-driven generator, underground water tank (seven above-ground), stables, shearing shed, blacksmithâs shop, bakerâs oven, dam, cow shed, and the room for smoking meat. They kept chickens, ducks and turkeys, horses for riding as well as a draught horse for the plough. His father Henry also maintained two vegetable gardens: one winter and one summer. With the assistance of a maid, his mother Erica cooked and baked and made jams and chutneys. She even churned her own butter. All this, and five children to look after as well.
In another family my father might have sat me down as a child and told me stories about the shearers that came to stay every shearing season, about the limestone quarry nearby where scores of workersâ families lived in tents, about the two interned Italians who were locked up at night in a room with barred windows and sang sad Neapolitan love songs. He might have told me that he bought them a monthly four-gallon cask of red wine from Houghton and told them to make it last but that the two sentimental Italians always drank it all in one night. But he didnât tell me anything. Not one single story. I know now that this is because he felt guilty. And, like my sister, my father dealt with difficulties by leaving them unsaid, by censoring, and by rewriting his life narrative in a way that left out pain and grief, conflict and indecision, and anything else that might have helped to make sense of this capable country boy turned tragic urban intellectual.
*
My father rarely spoke of his parents, although I knew he had an uneasy relationship with his mother, a woman committed to upholding Victorian attitudes and values. Henry and Erica were cousins. âThere were so few people to choose from,â my aunt told me later, that in Western Australia first cousins often married.
Stow had written to me saying that although he didnât really recall my grandmother Erica, he had âan impression that the women in my family thought her (or she thought herself) rather a grande dameâ. In some ways it seemed that all my fatherâs wild radicalism was aimed at his mother, but that couldnât explain his deep-seated grief and guilt. Until I learnt more of his childhood, I didnât see the possible source of his melancholy.
Ericaâs firstborn were twins: my father Alexander and his brother Godfrey. But the boys were premature and Godfrey was so small he came home from hospital in a shoe box. Then three girls were born in quick succession: Rachel, June (Careyâs mother) and Dawn. Each girl had her own pet kangaroo, galah and puppy. They kept orphaned joeys in a pillowslip behind the door with pink ribbons around their necks to show that they were pets. The boy twins had their own room and played together day and night.
One day in the summer of 1930 they had just returned from a picnic at the beach. It had been a lovely evening, with all five children playing on the shore. The next morning everyone got up except Godfrey.
Erica phoned Geraldton but the family doctor wasnât available. By the time the locum arrived the seizure that had gripped Godfrey during the night was over and he was asleep. The doctor, recently returned from England, had
On either side of the entrance were two palm trees planted by my grandfather to mark the birth of his twin sons. The gardens had once been well established. The homestead was more Australian than the European style of Ellendale but retained the same sense of dry isolation, the surrounding landscape scrubby and monotonous. This would have been a lonely place to grow up. At least in town Stow had neighbours nearby and dozens of cousins to play with. My father, I imagined, would have had few people to talk to outside the immediate family.
In another family, my father might have reminisced about the wind-driven generator, underground water tank (seven above-ground), stables, shearing shed, blacksmithâs shop, bakerâs oven, dam, cow shed, and the room for smoking meat. They kept chickens, ducks and turkeys, horses for riding as well as a draught horse for the plough. His father Henry also maintained two vegetable gardens: one winter and one summer. With the assistance of a maid, his mother Erica cooked and baked and made jams and chutneys. She even churned her own butter. All this, and five children to look after as well.
In another family my father might have sat me down as a child and told me stories about the shearers that came to stay every shearing season, about the limestone quarry nearby where scores of workersâ families lived in tents, about the two interned Italians who were locked up at night in a room with barred windows and sang sad Neapolitan love songs. He might have told me that he bought them a monthly four-gallon cask of red wine from Houghton and told them to make it last but that the two sentimental Italians always drank it all in one night. But he didnât tell me anything. Not one single story. I know now that this is because he felt guilty. And, like my sister, my father dealt with difficulties by leaving them unsaid, by censoring, and by rewriting his life narrative in a way that left out pain and grief, conflict and indecision, and anything else that might have helped to make sense of this capable country boy turned tragic urban intellectual.
*
My father rarely spoke of his parents, although I knew he had an uneasy relationship with his mother, a woman committed to upholding Victorian attitudes and values. Henry and Erica were cousins. âThere were so few people to choose from,â my aunt told me later, that in Western Australia first cousins often married.
Stow had written to me saying that although he didnât really recall my grandmother Erica, he had âan impression that the women in my family thought her (or she thought herself) rather a grande dameâ. In some ways it seemed that all my fatherâs wild radicalism was aimed at his mother, but that couldnât explain his deep-seated grief and guilt. Until I learnt more of his childhood, I didnât see the possible source of his melancholy.
Ericaâs firstborn were twins: my father Alexander and his brother Godfrey. But the boys were premature and Godfrey was so small he came home from hospital in a shoe box. Then three girls were born in quick succession: Rachel, June (Careyâs mother) and Dawn. Each girl had her own pet kangaroo, galah and puppy. They kept orphaned joeys in a pillowslip behind the door with pink ribbons around their necks to show that they were pets. The boy twins had their own room and played together day and night.
One day in the summer of 1930 they had just returned from a picnic at the beach. It had been a lovely evening, with all five children playing on the shore. The next morning everyone got up except Godfrey.
Erica phoned Geraldton but the family doctor wasnât available. By the time the locum arrived the seizure that had gripped Godfrey during the night was over and he was asleep. The doctor, recently returned from England, had
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