Red Raw: One Woman's Courageous Journey to Free her Voice

By Kayleen Greagen-Castle and Kelly Barker

Have you ever found yourself at rock-bottom?

Having my picture taken, as a twelve-year-old, I felt truly beautiful for the first time in my life. It was an unfamiliar but pleasant feeling that day. For a fleeting moment in a lifetime of trauma, I felt loved and cherished. 

As a child, I lived in fear of losing those I loved if t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kayleen Greagen-Castle
• Release date: Oct 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648406617

Kayleen Greagen-Castle

Kayleen's passion and desire for helping people is clearly demonstrated with her honest free style of writing in all her modalities. Kayleen writes from her heart about life. Her thoughtful perspectives offer her readers unique and inspirational insights into her thinking and the way she takes on life around her and everything it throws at her. With a less than desirable childhood and many tragedies throughout her life, Kayleen is the true definition of a fighter and has now opened her life to the world through her book where she shares deeply personal experiences, feelings, and memories along with inspirational pieces about life along with her experiences on her journey. Kayleen has inspirational groups and pages on Facebook with many followers which is where her love of sharing her thoughts online first began with many people telling her how much her writing and inspirational pieces helped them. Kayleen had not always aspired to be a writer but since starting her autobiography she quickly found a true love of writing. After reflecting on the past, it quickly became evident that she is a very skilled writer and writing was always going to play a pivotal role in her life, which started with Poetry at a young age. Kayleen now brings words to the page and screen to inspire and help others while proudly and passionately dedicating her time to inspiring others through social media outlets online along with humanitarian causes. Kayleen is highly regarded and takes on life with warm appreciation and gratitude for all that is around her and the courage to stand tall with a strong and clear voice to help and support on the behalf of others. In 2016 she recorded a live video on social media which has since been viewed over 12,000 times. Kayleen is a strong-spirited woman who supports and defends others, especially children whenever and wherever she can. Kayleens' voice is strong and has been publicly recognised for her efforts with one of the Top 100 most influential People of Perth for her endeavours both on stage as a speaker and the unnoticed efforts 'behind the scene'. Furthermore, Kayleen is an advocate for many things, one of them being kindness. Kindness is free and Kayleen understands first-hand the priceless value of kindness and what it's capable of and sets an example for her children and those around her at every opportunity to give back to others.

Book preview

Chapter 1

At Risk

I was two weeks overcooked when I arrived earth-side in 1985, with a full head of bright orange-red hair. I joke I was a baby orangutan, skinny and hairy, as I recall the photo of me being bathed in the metal kitchen sink of the house across from the pub. My bright blue eyes, Greagen eyes and bright red hair (that I hated for as long as I can remember) became my most distinguishable features. In later years freckles developed, along with my chubby little cheeks, I looked like a Cabbage Patch doll.

Date of notification: 17-06-87 Time 1402 

Section A. CHILD/REN SUBJECT OF NOTIFICATION

GREAGEN, KAYLEEN 

Age in Years: 1 ½ 

Type of Abuse Reported: 5. At Risk 

Previous Notification: No

Names [REDACTED]

Details of Notification:

17th June 1987, approximately some days before [REDACTED] had physically shaken 18-month-old child, Kayleen. Reported Kayleen constantly head bangs. [REDACTED] stated these problems were evident prior to Easter period – however cleared up. The child stayed with [REDACTED] in Port Augusta over Easter holidays and has since started behaviour again. Child considered at risk. Hospital has general concerns. Child looks generally sickly.

This was the first page I read in a stack three inches high, consisting solely of my childhood records with all names blanked out. At least another sixty documents were not included due to privacy laws.

***

In the rocky outback of South Australia, six hours north of Adelaide, rests a small opal mining town, Andamooka. Home. Both my desolation and salvation.

As you edge close to town, randomly spotted shades of white and brown mounds of dirt come into view. The speckled dots on the horizon, behind the mounds, are the few hundred houses, as haphazardly located as the mined hills of dirt. Some say it is a mystifying town. It was known people had turned around and driven back the way they came before passing the welcome sign, spooked. Those familiar with the dirt roads, lack of street names (unless you count Government Road), and the absence of road signs or street lights, were part of the close-knit community. Community made the town.

As an infant, the yellow house across the road from the pub was perfectly located as Mum tended the bar and often left me alone. It wasn’t uncommon for people to pop in to ensure I was ok, or take me for the day or night, sometimes longer, depending on Mum’s shift. The door was always unlocked. I don’t think anyone locked their houses in those days, or took their keys out of the car ignition. It’s just the way it was. Everyone looked out for one another.

My mum is one of seven children. Like Tazzie Devil, small and wild in both stature and build, with ever-changing styles of chestnut hair, from permed, to shoulder length, and sometimes completely shaved. She too had the piercing blue Greagen eyes and was quite attractive in her youth. She was no small presence.

A rare moment I felt close to Mum in a loving and comforted sense, was sitting on her lap as a small child. Stomach to stomach, my legs straddled her hips with my right ear against her chest. Her voice sounded garbled, like people talking under water. The background noise of the pub was blocked by total deafness in my left ear. For some reason, the sound of her voice in those moments was comforting.

Mum was a singer in a band with her brothers, Uncle Paddy and Uncle Gary. I was told her voice was lovely. Covering rock and roll songs from favourites The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac and Creedence, they were quite popular. I never heard her singing voice, substance abuse deprived her of tone.

I did, however, know her angry voice very well. Regardless of the setting, her projection was extreme. Whether she was screaming at my face or at someone else, I could hear her voice anywhere. When she was in front of me, the pungent smell of beer on her breath was ingrained in my brain. Thirty plus years later, one whiff of West End Draught and I am taken back to my youth.

The smell of beer, or the sound of Mum’s voice, brings back memories, but mostly feelings. Feelings compiled from all the traumatic events to follow.

Chapter 2

Care

1988 - Two years and eleven months old.

I had three main carers, my Uncle Paddy and Aunty Anne, Nan and Pop (who were no blood relation but had unofficially adopted mum ten years prior to my arrival), and Aunty Bernie, or Mernie as I called her, Nan’s fourteen-year-old daughter. They were all very protective of me. I needed it. They each cared for me around their work, school and other areas of life.

I was a soft and sweet child, though Mum portrayed me as wicked. One of her methods of punishment was chili on my tongue, and my face often became the target of her palm, sometimes in public. After several reports of neglect, abuse, and concerns for my safety, I was placed in temporary guardianship of the state for twenty-eight days. I was at the pub when a social worker came to take me away. Aunty Bernie was there, and I was distraught, clinging to her in desperation.

Refusing to allow me to go into foster care, Uncle Paddy and Aunty Anne took me in. Along with their own three children, they accepted me with love. I was encouraged into a routine otherwise unknown to me, and while I struggled sometimes, with gentle yet firm discipline, I abided. I was emotionally attached to Uncle Paddy, he was my safe place and while I was in their care Mum only had limited access.

1989 - Three years and one month old.

Uncle Paddy had wavy blond-brown hair and a moustache of the same colour. His crystal blue eyes were kind and loving. The gap in his front teeth was seen whenever he smiled. Most photos of him show a can of beer in his hand, he was truly loved by everyone. He was fun too. My favourite memories are of him lifting and swinging me and a younger cousin off his arms, at the same time. He was my hero and I trusted him implicitly.

Jumping to a memory before I was eight, we swam in an open cut mine filled with water from the desert rains. Mum encouraged me to jump off the five or six-metre hill into the water. I shook my head, no. Uncle Paddy told me he would catch me, and without hesitation I scaled the clay hill.

With wet feet, the clay gave me two-inch mud shoes. As I got to the top, I shook the excess mud off and looked down. Uncle Paddy had one arm slung over the tyre tube, waiting, not taking his eyes off me. It seemed so far, yet before I could get nervous, he counted down from three. Fearlessly, I jumped. Holding my breath as I flew through the air, a second later my feet hit the water and I was surrounded by murky water. Unable to see, I was still. A mere split-second passed before strong arms pulled me up. He came through, as always.

With their love and care, I settled well. The less contact I had with Mum, the better things were.

After the twenty-eight days, I was then placed on a five-year state care plan for welfare.

1989 - Three and a half years old.

Though mum had limited contact, each time she visited or called my behaviour became more difficult to control. I became despondent, wouldn’t eat properly and didn’t want to play with other children.

It was difficult to avoid her as it was such a small community. The time and effort my aunty and uncle invested in me to provide a stable and loving life gradually became undone. Things became increasingly challenging as I wouldn’t listen or behave, and my placement broke down. To make things easier for me and not to take too much of a toll on their family, welfare decided to place me with another foster carer.

Inside the Family Services department in Port Augusta, I felt incredibly scared. I was walking towards the entrance holding a lady’s hand when I saw a small boy standing just inside the front door. He had tears streaming down his face and looked terrified. My own fear burst, and I knew I had to get away. The lady left me standing with the boy as she walked into another room. I quickly ran out the door to my right and to the road-side. I believed I could run to my uncle’s house, my other uncle. He lived in Port August with his wife and my other cousins. Their house was just before the bridge, down to the left. The blue one.

Panic overcame me as I thought of crossing the busy road, so I quickly ran and ducked behind a car in the parking lot. I tried to calm my breathing and create a plan. Moments later, I was yanked by the arm and dragged back inside. The boy was gone.

1989 - Three years and eight months old.

The backyard was huge and had a giant gum tree right in the middle, old rusted cars in the back right corner and a very large metal-frame swing. My foster carer had two older boys who were quite rough with me. One of the boys was pushing me on the swing.

I was excited at first, the free feeling of air whooshing past my face, my legs dangling. It wasn’t long before I was scared. He pushed me too high. I couldn’t see anything but the sky above me and I thought I was going to go all the way over.

He just wouldn’t stop, over and over. I screamed through sobs and finally his mum yelled at him. Shortly after we were told to go to the shop, which was just out the back gate and down the alleyway. The moment we were outside the gate the boys ran off. I tried to follow but my little legs couldn’t keep up. I called for them to wait and they just looked back and laughed, then disappeared. I became scared and whimpered, running my hand along the bumpy iron fence. A couple of minutes later, my foster mum came and took me inside.

Nan visited me while I was in care. I loved seeing her. Her short, dark dyed hair was always styled neatly, matching her round glasses and red lip-stick. She was always dressed so nicely, and smelt of a mixture of cigarettes, black coffee and her kitchen. When she visited, she noticed bruises on my arms and face. She also witnessed me being smacked, and I was not allowed to speak to her until I had finished my lunch. Nan and Pop reported the abuse, claiming I looked too frightened to move.

When the social worker interviewed me, I told her about the abuse I incurred while living with them and was immediately removed from their care. The carers were then suspended and de-registered.

Though I was incredibly confused, upset and depressed, I settled fine with my new carers. I responded to boundaries and followed routine. With hands on hips, I defiantly told them if I was smacked anymore I would leave.

I was reluctant to cooperate during psychological assessments and I blamed myself for being removed from each home, taking the responsibility as my own. I thought being sent away was punishment for being naughty, and viewed life in terms of naughty and not naughty. The psychologist had concerns for pathology later in life.

1990 - Four years old.

Mum and I were observed during visits and I showed improvement, gradually displaying lower levels of guilt. My reports stated I was a bright child with a loving attachment to Mum. I had stopped wetting the bed, was calmer and more positive and displayed improved behaviour. It was suggested to return me to Mum’s care, though we had to spend a month in Coolock house first, a young family facility with support programs, aiding families to implement healthy routines and behaviours.

I didn’t know until many years later that whilst I was in foster care a friend of Mum’s approached the department and offered to adopt me. Mum refused due to the distance she would have to travel for access.

Having a stable carer would probably have meant I wouldn’t have the following pages for you to read. Alas, let me continue.

Chapter 3

Gypsies

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve relocated. It has to be more than twenty just in the township of Andamooka. When I first went back into Mum’s care, we lived in a house she owned. This was one of the parameters of me being returned to her, a stable home environment.

From the outside it looked like a tin shack, like many in town. Once inside the wooden front door, it’s paint peeling, you stepped onto the cold cement floor of the loungeroom, no mats to relieve the soles of my feet. Against the wall to the left was a long glass 70’s style cabinet filled with different rocks and opals on display.

The yellow, itchy three-seater lounge sat a few feet from the wooden panel TV I rarely got to watch straight ahead. The house constantly felt cold and smelled of dust and damp. Mostly dust. Wind often rattled the louvre windows, bringing layers of dust and cold drafts. Next to the TV was a cupboard above my shoulders.

Off to the right was a step down to the kitchen, onto a floor covered in yellow lino with black squares. The retro table, which I usually only sat at for breakfast, had mismatched vinyl chairs. The air in the small bathroom to the left was always cold, even when sitting in the warm water of the small corner bath. The toilet was outside the back door, through the kitchen, with a few slate stones leading the path. There were two bedrooms and lots of cobwebs, mostly inhabited by daddy long-legs.

Mum’s room, without a door, was just in front of the display cabinet, and my room was a long, narrow side room off Mum’s, possibly once a storage room. Only a light curtain separated us.

I loved my room. It was mine. I had two beautiful posters on my wall, one of the alphabet, and each with scenes of clouds, a castle and rainbows, all in soft pastel colours. I daydreamed about jumping and lying on the fluffy clouds, and wondered what it would be like to fly through the air while gazing at them.

Some nights, woken by noises or needing to pee, I’d slowly crawl out and under the curtain as quietly as I could, avoiding the moving bodies in Mum’s bed.

I also had a set of Strawberry Shortcake powder, bath gel and lip balm from Avon. I cherished the pale blue bottles with round pink lids, especially because of the little red-haired girl on the front with her freckles and pale pink hat. Looking at her I felt like a princess, and less alone.

Mum had a boyfriend, Chris. He was tall with blond hair and scratchy cheeks. He and mum fought a lot which frightened me. I always ran to her side. One night he flipped the table in the kitchen as I stood by the back door. Mum looked back and told me to run out the back, but not before he smacked me on the back of the head.

Barefoot, I ran and jumped behind the small stone fence next door. My heart pounded and my breath puffed as I ducked down, hiding in the dark. A few minutes later Mum came out, calling me. I popped up and we walked down the road together. I asked nervously if we were going to see Chris again.

No, she said. I smiled brightly and felt relieved. Down the road Mum knocked on a door with a light on and asked to use their phone. It was an old, red London-styled telephone box, I thought it was the greatest.

I loved the idea of playing with the phone, but I had other things to play with most of the time, especially in the pub, my home away from home.

***

My ears pounded, and my nose and throat burned in the atmosphere drowned in music, smoky haze, and people dancing, drinking and making all kinds of noise. Two noisy wooden doors at the entrance opened onto the dancefloor. Each had a small glass panel in them with big rectangle brass handles and they made a racket when bumped into, which was often. Maroon ceramic squares tiled the large rectangle dancefloor.

On the left was the zookeeper. A man-made DJ machine, it was like a cage with a gaping hole for the music director of the night to take requests. When not in use, the jukebox near the toilets lit up. Tucked away in the corner were the arcade games.

To the right of the dancefloor, itchy checker tiles made from some kind of rough carpet covered a larger area of tables and chairs, except for the tiles along the edge of the long bar, which matched the dancefloor. Beyond the tables and chairs a large open area, separated by a big wooden column, was home to two pool tables constantly surrounded by people. Gold coins lined the green cloth edges for the next challengers. It didn’t matter what night of the week it was, the pub was full.

Of the arcade games tucked away in the corner, pinball was my favourite. Excitement filled me whenever the game truck arrived. I rarely missed an exchange. The clang of coins being emptied into a bucket woke the sleeping butterflies which started to flutter. I knew soon I might get a free game. With his special little trolley, he wheeled the empty machine out and bought the new one in. I followed him, opening doors if he needed. It never got old. After ten minutes or so, the man inserted a coin in the new machine then walked away.

There it was, the big red flashing button, urging me to just push it. Sometimes I waited for him to come back, to play his game. He never did. I was so excited! Mustering my strength, I would slide a heavy stool across the rough floor tiles close enough to sit on so I could see properly, then tap the flashing button, smiling from ear to ear as I watched the game come to life. Stretching to reach the buttons on the side I hit the shiny silver ball around. Multi-ball was the ultimate challenge. It was such an achievement to have three balls flying around, lighting the board up and making all kinds of sounds, it had me on the edge of my seat. BANG went the machine, making my heart pound so I almost jumped off the seat. I won a free game. It was fun playing games.

The jukebox and pool tables were my babysitters when I wasn’t playing games. They both fascinated me. The endless pages filled with songs flipped backwards and forwards and pressing buttons made music come on. I was often given coins to slide in the little slot and told which buttons to press. Suddenly a song came to life and I felt like a magician. One of my all-time favourite songs from those years was Holding Out For A Hero by Bonnie Tyler. I so wished for a hero to come and save me.

I chased the coloured balls around the pool table, watching and waiting for the clunk of the ball on wood, then listening to the ball rolling through the table and sliding along the glass panel. I would call out, bigs, or, littles, to whoever was playing. I learned quickly not to hang my fingers over the edge of the cushion - that hurt.

The pub opened early and closed late. I had a couple of beds, depending on my mood or the atmosphere. Sometimes I pulled a couple of chairs together and curled up under a table. Other nights I lay on the floor under the pool table. One night everyone thought I was missing until I was discovered on the other side of the pool table, asleep on a couple of chairs. Later, my bed was upgraded to a small sofa with big grey cushions. It was much more comfortable than the metal bars of the chairs in my back. My ears throbbed to the beat of the music from the jukebox just a couple of feet away. A quiet spot didn’t exist, I learned to sleep anyway.

There were often fights in the pub. Someone always picked me up and took me away until it was over. I became self-sufficient, knowing all the safe places depending on where the fight took place. Someone always came to tell me and any other kids when it was safe.

Mum was involved in many of those fights. I saw her once on the dance floor, right in the hub of action. Suddenly there was lots of yelling. My stomach jumped as it always did. I turned and saw her jump on the back of a huge Kiwi man. Without thinking, my body made its way to the toilets, but not before I saw her bring him to the ground and bite his foot. Luckily I was never hurt, though it was sometimes very scary.

Mum always seemed angry, no matter what, and the multiple assault charges (with only one on a female) was evidence of her anger and lashing out.

In later years, I made private phone calls from the public telephone inside the pub. It was royal blue in colour and sat on a metal frame with wheels, making it somewhat portable. I dragged it over to one of the lounges I slept on, sat down and faced the buttons towards me. I always made sure the phone somewhat hid me, the blue rectangle covering my face so I could semi-hide behind it, making sure Mum was in sight. I dialled the Kids Helpline and would confide in whoever answered the phone. I told them as much as I could. It was great just to have someone to talk to, someone who would listen.

Mum looked over sometimes and then went back to her drinking at the bar. After a while, she would make her way towards me and I’d have to quickly tell the person my mum was coming and I had to go, hanging up the phone before she got to me.

Who are you talking to? she’d ask, always suspicious. Every time I told her I was just pretending to talk to someone, playing.

There were a few adults in town who empathised for me. They would take me into their arms sometimes and tell me they knew I was unhappy. They’d whisper in my ear how much they loved and cared about me. I confided in some of them, and they were always understanding. I was raised in plain view of the town, everyone bore witness to most of what my life was like. It was nice to have people who understood, and mostly, who cared.

I wished someone would keep me, it might have saved me from what was to come.

Chapter 4

Nooooooo!

1990 - Four and a half years old.

I looked to the sky from the ramp into the Tuckerbox. The Tuckerbox was the other pub, or restaurant, a hundred metres or so down the road from the pub I all but lived at. It was a bright sunny day, not a cloud in sight. I stood alone with a familiar black ridgeback-cross retriever dog. I had been patting him for a while.

A function was on and people unexpectedly came outside. Almost as soon as they came out, they went back in, making their way through the heavy metal door. The door took a long time to close. When it did, if you didn’t hold it, it would slam loudly. People always forgot. I looked back to the dog, we were alone again. I gently stroked his back with my left hand, just like I had been doing. Unpredictably, the dog attacked me. I screamed, and before the door closed people were at my side.

I screamed for Uncle Paddy as I got stitches in my eye and cheek. I could have lost at least one eye, though fortunately, I only ended with a scar under my right eye and on my left cheek where the dog’s teeth pierced.

Psychological report and relationship assessment:

Willful child, refusing engagement and controlling. Beneath willful veneer, a scared child. Bright and sassy young girl with fits of defiance and headstrong. Affectionate with Mother.

I was still under state care, and my social worker, Faith, regularly visited me. I really liked her, she was a shorter lady, with blonde wavy hair and an oval face with a kind smile. After an assessment, Mum asked to be dropped to the pub and I began to fret, asking her when we would go home. She told me after dinner and my whole demeanour changed. With a desolate look upon my face and head hanging low, I followed her inside.

I attended kindy (kindergarten) two days a week, then was absent for four to five weeks as we were often out of town. I was a best student, described by my teachers and principle as bright and articulate. There were, however, concerns of sexual abuse.

***

Aunty Bernie moved to Whyalla and she picked me up and took me back with her on the bus. I was so excited to be with her again, at bedtime I raced down the hallway into my room. I tripped in the dark, falling head first onto the open clip of my suitcase, which became embedded in my head. Aunty Bernie rushed in, turning the light on as I screamed in a pool of blood. I was taken to the hospital where Aunty Bernie told the doctor not to mention stitches given my recent experience with them. He didn’t listen, and it took them an extra twenty minutes to calm me down to stitch up my head. I still have an obvious indent in my forehead.

I had been staying with Aunty Bernie for a few weeks. Mum had made no attempts to come and collect me and Aunty Bernie wanted to establish a solid foundation and routine for me, rather than being all over the place, so she decided to enrol me into kindy. She didn’t know how long it would be before Mum would show up, as it wasn’t the first time she had been gone for weeks on end without word. Just as I got settled in kindy, Mum decided she would come and get me, I guess she was unable to accept me getting settled with Aunty Bernie. I was distraught again.

1991 - Five and a half years old.

In a caravan park in Millicent, surrounded by enormous gum trees, we lived with Mum’s boyfriend, John, for four months. I was always afraid of him. He was a tall, deep spoken Italian, medium build, with dark hair and a bushy beard.

A family with ten children lived two spaces away. I was amazed at such a large family, I thought it must have been so much fun to have siblings. I have two sisters and a brother, but I didn’t know them well, if at all. My sisters were being raised by two of my mum’s sisters and my brother was adopted out as a baby. One of my sisters, Charlie, lived in Millicent. She is six years older than me. I was often sad and confused about my siblings.

Many times growing up I thought I was an only child, then I would remember and feel the pain of being alone and unwanted again, deepening my sorrow. I wanted to belong somewhere, to be wanted.

Sometimes I was lucky to get an ice cream or some food down the road if the family were eating when I stopped by. I was thrilled to get treats. One of the boys and I loved to run around the trees, picking and eating the sweet sap which always left us with sticky fingers.

The park had an exciting pool, just over a small grassy hill, right next to the canteen. I was never allowed to go. It was like a lolly in front of me that I couldn’t eat. Temptation got the better of me one day. The canteen lady told me I shouldn’t be there. I sweetly said I was allowed. It was so thrilling, splashing in the water.

I heard her before I saw her. Hearing her scream my name as she scanned the water, I froze, immediately knowing it would be bad. I wanted to stay in the water, protected. It would be worse if she had to get in. I gave in and slowly sulked out. Getting hold of me, she dragged me by the hair back to the caravan. This was early in the day, when she wasn’t even drunk yet. I never tried a second time.

We did spend one fun afternoon in the pool, like a real family. It was the only time I enjoyed John’s company.

***

A few days later I stood somberly with Mum as we looked at a rack of dresses. I felt confused. I rarely got new things, unless it was from Aunty Bernie, she always bought me nice clothes. I wanted a pretty dress, and this day I could pick whichever one I wanted. But I didn’t want one - because of the occasion. I really liked the green one with a big bow at the back, but I didn’t give it away easily, even though the shopkeeper and Mum both prodded me with questions. Mum bought it. I wanted it, but didn’t want it, and showed no appreciation.

The following day, with sixty people in attendance, I stood in front of Mum and John in the backyard of John’s sister’s house. Under the shade of large trees, I listened intently as they held hands and said words I didn’t like. I wasn’t happy. The moment Mum said, I do, I screamed, Noooooo! right at her face, my fists clenched at my sides. I ran away, ignoring her for the rest of the day, instead playing with kids on equipment and climbing trees.

Mum asked if I wanted to change my last name to John’s surname. I didn’t have to, only if I wanted to. I thought it would be cool to have a new name and tell the kids at school. We signed some paperwork and left. When we moved back to Andamooka I told the kids at school I had a new name, thinking it was cool. Not only did they have my first name, hair and other reasons to pick on me, my new surname was another weapon and I regretted my choice. I never used his name again.

Their marriage lasted a month. I was relieved John was gone.

It wasn’t long until another was on the scene though.

Chapter 5

A New Man

1992 – Six years old.

Men were in and out of our lives. It was a constant, until Fred. Unlike all the others, he was a good man. He claimed a place in my heart alongside Uncle Paddy. Fred was a sturdy man with a kind face, short brown hair and moustache, and dark tanned arms. He loved working on machinery and always had dirty, greasy hands.

Fred’s wrinkles didn’t match his age. He was in his early fifties, though several double-arched wrinkles were etched deep in his forehead. As a boy he wanted to be like the men, so frowned as often as he could, solely to get forehead wrinkles. If he wasn’t wearing a flannelette shirt and happy pants, he was in a wife-beater (singlet), shorts and thongs. He always smelled of sweat, grease and tobacco. I didn’t mind. He looked like Popeye with his big tobacco pipe hanging out of his mouth.

Fred’s yard was enormous. With vehicles and machinery of all kinds parked in every direction and no fence in sight, the yard seemed to go for miles. His house was an old Woomera transportable with four bedrooms. Three steps made of different stones led you up to the large verandah. The flimsy wood slats creaked underfoot. The ratty screen door was held open by a rock in winter, closed in summer. The key lived in the moss coloured front door, and nobody knocked unless it was the police.

We constantly had visitors, the creaky slats giving their presence away each time. Inside, the first thing you saw was the kitchen table, a few metres in. The open lounge and dining room had a small kitchen to the left. Fred always sat in the same position, facing the front door. He was first to see who was coming. The house was quite spacious though, and had hallways and doors everywhere, usually covered with colourful tassels hanging from the door-frame in an attempt to keep flies out.

My bedroom was the largest I ever had, just to the right of the kitchen table. A black quilt cover with bright coloured patterns covered my double bed. A double bed. It was such a luxury! Mismatched furniture, which I eventually plastered stickers all over, filled the rest of the room. The cupboards were filled with second-hand clothes and teddies.

I was often in the double story shed out the back as Fred’s little assistant. The machinery was a kids’ playground, although I almost never ventured out without shoes on. Sometimes I risked it, always regretting the thought I could outsmart them - the three-cornered jacks. Sometimes even shoes weren’t enough to stop them piercing your feet. The shed smelled like grease, a smell I became deeply fond of, not to mention getting my hands dirty. I was a tomboy.

Next to the shed was a shade house, perfect for growing plants. Not traditional plants. I was taught how to look after them. Fred was so fond of his greenery.

It was scorching in summer. A fifty-degree Celsius summer hit and we had one ceiling fan in the whole house, no air conditioner. We slept on the lounge room floor for a month, doing our best to get some reprieve. Wet towels were rolled and placed at the bottom of doors and windows, but they’d be dry before too long. I often got up in the middle of the night to wet a towel to lay on. We eventually got ceiling fans in the whole house.

Life stabilised with Fred and I felt home for the first time. We didn’t relocate for six years, but there were many times we didn’t stay there. Some of those times I’ll never forget.

Mum and Fred fighting wasn’t uncommon, though when they did it was nothing like I had witnessed with other guys, mostly just yelling. Mum was angry a lot.

Late one wintry night, she got me out of bed after their fight and told me to