Full Circle

By John Kjeldsen

Full Circle - SYNOPSIS

Jim leaves home fearing that he may have killed his violent, drunken father. He finds work on a thoroughbred stud in The Hunter Valley but when his romance with the wealthy bosses’ daughter, Mel, is discovered he is fired and Mel is dispatched to her aunt in England.
In England Mel is involved in some tumultuous relationships before she returns to Australia.
Jim finds his way to The Snowy River Scheme where he becomes involved in supplying the three Gs for the workers; girls, grog and gambling. When police shut this down he finds his way to western Queensland, The Northern Territory and the Kimberleys and participates in fixing horse races and cattle doffing.
During this time he has a passionate relationship with an aboriginal girl, Penelope.
Eventually Jim and Mel accidentally meet and rekindle their romance. After their marriage the story follows their battle against the elements as they attempt to establish a horse stud on the farm where they first met.
The story concludes with an expose of the tragic life experienced by Penelope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Kjeldsen
• Release date: Apr 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311617026

John Kjeldsen

John Kjeldsen was born on the 6th March 1935 at Martinsville; a tiny, isolated village about fifteen miles west of Morisset on the central coast of New South Wales.His parents eked out an existence from a citrus orchard, growing vegetables and raising poultry.The unpainted weatherboard home was lined with Hessian bags that had wallpaper glued to them. There was no electricity available for the first ten years of his life and no water laid on and no septic service.He walked three miles to primary school barefooted as shoes were only for special occasions. To attend high school he rode a pushbike eight miles over mainly corrugated gravel roads.Having passed The Leaving Certificate twice he enrolled at The Wagga Wagga Teachers’ College in 1952. His first appointment was to Euston Central School on The Murray River, where there were sixteen year old pupils; just two years younger than him!He taught in one-teacher schools for a number of years and later moved to secondary schools where he taught Maths, Commerce, Geography and Economics and obtained a Bachelor of Arts Degree by correspondence.After he was married he always had a small farm of some kind, beef, fat lambs, pigs, poultry or citrus.After his marriage failed he married Angie and moved to the beautiful Dorrigo plateau where he worked as a real estate/stock agent and he and Angie ran a dairy farm.After surviving a tractor accident they moved to Mooroopna in the Goulburn Valley and ran a dairy farm for ten years. The onset of health problems saw them move to a small farm at Eurongilly where they traded beef cattle and lambs and had a Boer goat stud.A massive DVT (deep vein thrombosis) brought an end to John’s ability to undertake strenuous physical work and faced the reality of having to sell the farm. He then suffered from depression and began writing poetry. This led to the publication of his first book An Old Dag Remembers. John has also written five other books, Full Circle, Whose Paying The Rent?, Devious Dave and Others, Sweet Pretty Little Creature and Not just and Old man. All of these books have been warmly received at local markets.John’s books all contain characters that he has met in various locations as he has always studied the character of people. He could read before he began school and his passion for reading has never waned and today he has a library of more than a thousand books.Today Angie and John live on a few acres on the outskirts of Wagga Wagga and he breeds finches and show’s poultry and gardens, and Angie has two pacing brood mares and a yearling. Their most important companions are a mini Dachshund, a Cairn Terrier and Boarder Collie.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

WHY?

Jim pulled the pillow over his head as tightly as he could in a vain attempt to shut out the sound of his father’s foul mouthed abuse, the thud of fists into his mother’s body and worst of all, his mother’s soft sobbing.

Why? Why? His thoughts rebounded in his head.

His seventeenth birthday on the first of October 1966 had brought little joy as his father had celebrated by getting drunk. Along the way he seemed to obtain sadistic joy in humiliating Jim with reference to his small stature. For years Jim had been so small that many people remarked that he would become a jockey but finally he had begun to grow but he was still very slightly built and really looked younger than his years.

For as long as he could remember every Friday night had followed the same pattern. His father would come home drunk and if Sue or Jim was present he would hurl derogatory remarks at them. That was bad enough but the treatment of his mother made Jim flinch. He longed to stand up to his father but knew that he was no match for his powerful parent, drunk or sober his father would surely thrash him.

No matter what meal his mother had prepared she would receive a tirade of abuse often culminating with the meal being thrown into her face. His father would then force his mother into the bedroom saying, I’ll see if you are good for anything, you useless bitch!

Then the truly frightening verbal and physical abuse would begin.

Eventually the noise would abate and the only sounds emitting from the bedroom would be his mother’s sobbing and his father’s snoring.

Jim would know that the abuse had concluded for another week but always found it difficult to go to sleep as he strained to find a solution to his mother’s suffering.

Next morning his parents acted as if nothing untoward had happened even though his mother’s battered face gave stark evidence of what occurred. For the rest of the week his father was kind and caring to Jim and to his mother.

Three years previously his sister, Sue, tried to intervene to save her mother from the abuse and she had been knocked unconscious for her trouble. The next morning she asked her mother why she tolerated the regular abuse. The reply was, Your father is a good man and he loves me. It’s the drink that makes him act that way.

Sue’s reply was full of fury, If the rotten bastard loved you he wouldn’t drink. If you’re stupid enough to stay that’s your problem but I’m off.

Jim and Sue had always been close and her departure saddened him, he understood Sue’s reaction but could not contemplate deserting the mother that he adored.

Sue had then walked out the door with a bag full of clothes and had not been seen or heard of since.

Jim had frequently come across his mother holding a photo of Sue while weeping quietly. His father was vitriolic with his comments about Sue when the realization that she had gone, sunk in. He declared that she was an ungrateful little trollop and that he was glad that she was no longer part of the family. He then dictated that Sue was not to be spoken about ever again.

As the sounds of abuse and weeping dissipated Jim’s mind turned back to the first time he became aware of the abuse. He must have been three or four when he was awakened by his mother’s screams and ran into his parents’ bedroom. The scene was still graphically etched in his mind; his stark naked father had hold of his naked mother by the hair holding her erect with his left hand and mercilessly slapping her face with his right hand. Jim had screamed, Daddy stop hurting mummy!

Without speaking his father had lifted him by his hair, carried him to his room and hurled him inside before shutting the door and turning the key. Jim lay where he had landed beside the bed, absolutely terrified, cuddling his teddy bear but too traumatized to move. He believed that his mother was being killed and that he would never see her again. What seemed an eternity later his mother quietly entered his bedroom and comforted him and he clung to her sobbing with relief. When he had calmed down she warned him never to come into her bedroom again.

He often awoke having nightmares about that terrible night and never dared to attempt to rescue his mother again. But always the question revolved in his mind, Why was his father bashing his mother?

From that time on he was in an emotional turmoil with regard to his father. During the week his father played football with him in the backyard after work and at the weekend watched him play football and at times took him to the beach or took him fishing. He would feel proud when his father praised him and thought that he loved his dad when he held his hand. But then he would ask himself, How can daddy be so nice to me and then be so cruel to my mummy?

As they grew older he and Sue had learned to dread Fridays. Their mother spent the day like a cat on hot bricks as she prepared what she hoped would be a meal that would please her husband. In the evening she spent ages applying make up and putting on her best dress to be as attractive as possible and the children would catch snippets of the conversation she had with herself. He loves crumbed cutlets; he adores bread and butter pudding. He always loved my hair in a pony tail. Tragically the result was always the same, a drunken Jack would stagger through the door and look at his wife and at the meticulously prepared meal and the tirade would start. The tirade followed a familiar pattern, Why did I marry such an ugly, useless bitch. Look at you, the sight of you would frighten horses. Can’t even cook a decent meal, this isn’t fit for pigs. The meal would then be thrown into his wife’s face and he would seize her hair and drag her into the bedroom yelling, Let’s see if you’re good for anything, you useless cow!

Sue and Jim always ate dinner early on Friday night and diligently ensured that none of their friends came around. As they got older they always tried to spend Friday evenings at friends’ homes, but the visits were constantly tarnished by the knowledge of what was happening at home.

They knew that their father was well respected in the local community as a hard working coalminer who enjoyed a beer on Friday night. He was a regular at church, president of the school parents and citizens association and a willing helper at any charity functions. At times they thought of telling people how their father behaved on Friday nights but deep inside they knew that no one would believe them and that their mother would deny the abuse.

So Jim was constantly asking why? Why did his father behave that way? Why wouldn’t his mother leave? Why wouldn’t people believe what was going on?

Why couldn’t he help his mother?

Little wonder that he was inattentive at school and under achieving.

The one thing keeping him sane was his job at the trotting stables. He had always been mad about horses and one day just before his sixteenth birthday his father came home and asked if he would like a Saturday morning job at the stables owned by a workmate’s son. Jim was beside himself with excitement when his father drove him to the stables. Bernie was reticent about employing him because he felt the work might be too much for someone so physically small but finally agreed to give him a trial. At the end of the morning Bernie gave him ten shillings and said he had done well. From then on Jim was up at the crack of dawn every Saturday to ride his bike the five miles to the stable. Soon he gave up football to work all day Saturday and before long all day Sunday as well. The money was not important to him and he didn’t care that it was hard work cleaning out stables, spreading new bedding, cleaning gear and mixing feed.

When Bernie taught him to ride on a trotter that was too slow to race he was in seventh heaven. He would devour his lunch in five minutes flat and then go riding. After work he would ride again and this led to his education in how to wash and groom a horse and put its rug on correctly. Soon he had graduated to grooming, washing and rugging horses that were in work. In the last few weeks two gigantic break throughs had occurred; firstly he had learnt how to trim his mounts’ hooves and tack shoes on and secondly he had been allowed to drive a very quiet pacer as it slowly jogged around the track.

The ultimate reward from his job was that because he was completely immersed in what he was doing never did a thought about home intrude. It was only as he neared home on his bike that "Why?’ would begin buzzing through his mind.

Jim felt that he was capable of earning enough to support his mother so the previous week, after his mother had endured a particularly brutal beating, he broached the subject with her.

He found it completely impossible to comprehend her response, Your father’s a good man Jim. It’s only the drink that makes him violent and he’s always sorry the next day. You know he goes to church every Sunday and is always helping people. He works hard to provide for us. I know I’ve let him down because he comes from a family of twelve and he always wanted a large family. He deserves a pretty wife who’s a good cook, not someone plain like me who throws meals together.

Jim’s degree of anger even surprised him, That is the greatest heap of bullshit I’ve ever heard. If he’s sorry why does he keep on getting drunk? He couldn’t afford a bigger family; he spends so much on grog and gambling on Friday night that you are always short of money. He puts on a show going to church and helping people then the bloody hypocrite bashes you. Despite the treatment you suffer you are still pretty and every one knows you are a superb cook. I can’t believe that you want to stay. I wish I could put a stop to him!

That conversation tormented his mind as he lay awake. If his mother wouldn’t leave then he had to find a way to stop the bashings.

As he was finally dozing off the solution came to him.

CHAPTER TWO

The Solution

Friday afternoon was sports day so Jim volunteered to help place the various equipment around the school ovals. Surreptitiously he deposited a softball bat in the bushes behind the oval.

After school he retrieved the bat and with it resting across the handlebars of his bike he raced home so that no one would see him with the bat. He quietly slipped in the backdoor without being sighted by his mother and then hid the bat under his blankets. After changing into his work clothes he went to the kitchen and gave his mother a hug and told here how nice she looked in a new frock that she had made herself. She had her normal Friday night look of apprehension and paid little attention to Jim as she fussed around the kitchen.

Before his father came home Jim ate his tea and then went to his room. Into his large backpack he carefully packed his clothes and last of all his radio and alarm clock, which had reliably woken him every Saturday and Sunday morning to go to work. Next he took out the jar containing his savings and counted the notes. Just over three hundred dollars in all that he carefully folded and placed in a pocket of his backpack. He smiled to himself as he recalled changing his pound notes to dollars when decimal currency had come in February 1966, having double the amount of notes had made him feel rich.

He lay on his bed but there was no chance of sleep as his stomach was in a knot and his head was spinning with a thousand random thoughts. His mind was made up, tonight he would bring a halt to his mother’s suffering, if he landed in trouble, as a consequence, then that was a price he was prepared to pay.

Just before ten his father came home and the tirade of abuse commenced. Soon he heard the sound of a plate crashing to the floor, then a sharp scream and he could visualize his mother being dragged to the bedroom. Jim waited until he could hear his father bashing his mother and hurling abuse at her while she tried not to cry out.

Bat in hand he quietly opened the door and entered the bedroom. His father had his back to the door as he punched the limp figure of his wife. Jim took a deep breath and swung the bat with all of his strength, it landed on the back of his father’s head with a sickening thud. As if in slow motion his father collapsed on the bed with blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

His mother screamed, Oh what have you done Jimmy?

I hope I’ve killed the bastard, bye mum.

Jim’s mind was on auto control as he grabbed his backpack and mounted his bike and began pedalling furiously. As he crossed the bridge he threw the bat over the rail and heard it splash into the waters of Wyong Creek. At the sound of the splash he wondered whether it would sink or if it would find its’ way to the lake and perhaps even the ocean. These thoughts were soon gone as he saw the lights of the service station in Tuggerah Strait where transport drivers pulled up to refuel and have a meal.

Jim threw his bike into the blackberry bush behind the service station and carried his backpack to the front.

A tall dark headed man, perhaps in his forties, emerged from the café and walked towards a semi loaded with hay. Mustering all of his courage Jim approached him and asked, Where are you taking the hay mister?

To a horse stud at Singleton young feller.

Can I come with you, please? asked Jim.

You look a bit young to be hitch hiking at night. Are you running away from home?

Jim tried to look unperturbed as he replied, No I’ve just been sacked because I asked for some time off so I want to find a job somewhere else.

The driver scratched his head and somewhat dubiously replied, Oh all right, you look to be a decent kid.

Jim settled into the seat beside the driver who tried to engage him in conversation but Jim only responded in monosyllables and eventually the driver gave up.

Just after one the driver pulled into a parking bay and said, I haven’t had a kip for eighteen hours so I’m hopping into bed but you will have to sleep on the seat.

Surprisingly Jim fell into a deep sleep and when the driver woke him he was momentarily disorientated but by the time they had answered the call of nature he was completely awake. The driver rubbed his belly and gave a supersonic burp, There’s a great cafe half an hour down the road. If you can eat all of the bacon and eggs they dish up you’ll be doing bloody well. The reception should be okay here so we may as well have some music.

As the radio came to life and the six thirty news began, Last night police and ambulance were called to a home on the outskirts of Wyong where a man was found unconscious with a fractured skull. He is in critical condition in intensive care in Gosford Hospital. His wife told police that he fell and hit his head. She is helping police with their investigation.

Jim’s stomach was in a knot, he didn’t know whether he was happy or disappointed that his father was still alive.

Sounds a bit suss to me. I reckon the old girl might have whacked him with the rolling pin, remarked the driver. Jim refrained from responding.

The meal at the café was enormous and Jim ate with gusto. As he finished he produced some money but the driver said, This one’s on me kid. Now what do you want to do?

Do you think there would be any chance of a job where you’re taking the hay?

I’ve no idea but the manager, Harry Horton, is a good old buggar so you can come along and ask if you like.

A huge sign indicated their destination had been reached, HIDEAWAY STUD. HOME OF LONGCHAMP. Beneath the name was a picture of a magnificent grey stallion rearing up on his hind legs.

Following the long, tree lined driveway, they came to a halt beside the hayshed. The grey haired manager appeared and began talking to the driver so Jim busied himself untying the ropes and bundling them up.

Got yourself a sidekick have you Charley? He looks like a worker, commented the manager.

Charley beckoned, Come here Jim and meet Mr. Horton. As Jim shook hands with the manager Charley continued, This is Jim and he’s looking for work.

Mr. Horton asked, "Have you had any experience with horses young fellow?’

With a smile Jim replied, I’ve worked at a trotting stable every weekend for two years. I can clean stables, groom horses and was just learning to shoe and jog horses.

Trotters! The poor man’s racehorse but caring for horses is the same no matter what breed they are. Can you ride?

There was a slow trotter that I rode every lunchtime and after work, Jim announced.

Well the boss, his wife and daughter each have a riding horse here and they have to be worked every day so they are okay when the family comes here for holidays and I’m getting past that. If you show me that you can work unloading the hay I’ll give you a start, was Mr. Horton’s response.

Jim was determined to make an impression that would secure him the job so he worked at a frantic pace hurling the bales off the truck. After a few minutes Mr. Horton called out, Slow down Jim before you kill yourself and us. You’ve got the job.

When Charlie had departed Mr. Horton took Jim to an attic above the stables, there was a tiny bedroom, a small living room with an old lounge, small table and an electric stove and a shower. These are your quarters, you can eat with us and Mrs. Horton will do the washing for you. Get unpacked and then come down and I’ll show you around.

Soon Jim was being escorted through the complex by Mr. Horton. Mr. Gibson is a Sydney businessman and this property is his hobby and he expects it to be a showpiece. We only stand one stallion and have around thirty mares of our own and there are about fifty outside mares each year. I break in the yearlings and then a couple are sent to a Sydney trainer and the rest are sold at the yearling sales. I’ll show you the three riding horses you have to exercise.

The barn had a total of twelve stalls, six on each side, with a breezeway down the middle. In the end three stalls were two impressive grey Arabian geldings and one mare, which Mr. Horton said were really very quiet but needed daily work so that they didn’t get toey.

After the tour of inspection Mr. Horton put Rambo, the stallion, into a sand yard and then they put the Arabs into an outside yard before cleaning the stalls, replacing the bedding and mixing feed.

The next couple of weeks are going to be pretty quiet so you will be accustomed to the place before the breeding season starts. Each day after we’ve done our chores I want you to exercise those three. You can alternate riding and leading. Those are Mr. Gibson’s pride and joy so it will be up to you to keep them quiet and looking a picture. The boss is hard but fair, do your work well and you’ll have no problems but if you cross him you’ll be sacked on the spot. Now I’ll show you where their saddles are in the tack room.

Working the horses was sheer joy as they were quiet but free going and much smoother movers than the old trotter he was used to riding. Mr. Horton nodded with approval after Jim had groomed the horses and helped lead them into a small lucerne paddock before going to lunch.

Mrs. Horton was a jolly, rotund woman who immediately put Jim at ease and she obviously enjoyed seeing him devour his chops, vegetables and bread and butter pudding. Jim felt very content, his only concern being the condition of his father.

The rest of the day was spent checking on mares and foals, chipping thistles, mending fences and then putting the horses back in the stable for their evening feed. After a huge steak for dinner Jim showered and lay on his bed listening to the radio. He tensed when the news came on, A Wyong man who has been in intensive care after sustaining a fractured skull has recovered consciousness and has been interviewed by police. He stated that he had no recollection of how his injury occurred so police have closed their investigation.

Jim’s emotions were mixed; he was sad that his father was still alive so that his mother would still suffer, but he was relieved that he wasn’t being sought by police. Perhaps the episode might change his behavior, he could only hope so.

Jim soon settled into the farm routine and had never been happier. With the breeding season the hours were long but he loved all of the activities and proved an apt pupil, learning how to quietly handle the foals. He loved teaching them to lead by gently pulling on a halter while forcing them forward with a rope looped around the rump. He felt a real sense of triumph when, after a few days, they realized what was required and walked beside him, The only downside was the morning he went, before breakfast, to check which mares were in season and found a foal had died after breaking its’ neck when it crashed into a fence. He was distraught when he ran into the kitchen to inform Mr. Horton but he was philosophical saying, Unfortunately you have to accept that when you have live horses you will have dead ones.

Time sped by and Jim only left the farm each Saturday morning to post money to his mother with a note saying he was happy.

A fortnight before Xmas Mr. Horton announced, The boss, his wife and their daughter, Melanie, will be arriving next week for a month’s holiday. A bit of advice young fellow, Mel is a stunner but she comes from a different world to you and me, she is out of your league so you can look but don’t try to touch. Do you understand?

Jim nodded his assent.

For the next week Jim rode the Arabs twice a day to ensure that they would be completely tractable. He spent every spare minute brushing their coats and they sparkled in the sunshine.

With Mr. Horton supervising he trimmed their hooves and put on new shoes. He had ambitiously anticipated shoeing three horses in one evening, but by the time he had finished the first horse his clothes were drenched with perspiration and his back ached so that he could barely stand. The pain was all worth while when he finally finished the third horse and Mr. Horton congratulated him for a job well done.

Jim barely wasted a thought on the daughter of the owners; his thoughts were focused on making such a good impression that his job would be secure.

Working at the trotting stables had seemed to be the best job in the world, but this was even better. Sometimes he let his imagination run wild and he dreamt that when Mr. Horton retired he would become the manager.

He loved the horses and he loved the property, and he was familiar with every inch of it, but most of all he loved the large pool in the river that Mr. Horton declared was bottomless. Jim tried in vain to dive through the still water to the bottom and one day he vowed that he would succeed.

CHAPTER THREE

DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

As they ate tea on the following Thursday night Mr. Horton gave Jim his instructions, Tomorrow morning you have to paint the feet of the three Arabs, and groom the three of them. Be especially careful of their manes and tails. I expect you to have them looking a picture.

The next morning Jim attacked his task with plenty of vim and just before ten Mr, Horton came over to where they were tied to a rail and inspected his work, Well done Jim they are fairly sparkling.

A few minutes later a Mercedes pulled up beside the homestead and Jim followed Mr. Horton. As the Gibsons alighted and greeted Mr. Horton warmly