Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (11 page)

I was caught in the middle, but felt I needed to support Paul; so we left. At home that night, Paul started a series of drawings of a witch with a remarkable likeness to Dory. Images of broomsticks and cauldrons completed the analogy. There was no denying he was a masterful artist, and he was obviously inspired. ‘This is gonna be my Jewish mother-in-law series.’

I told Paul he was being unfair: Dory suffered from depression and had had shock treatment years ago, but she meant well. ‘Besides, she had a point,’ I said. ‘And by the way, I’ve missed my period—I think I might be pregnant.’

Paul came home from the pub one day, telling me he’d just met a Dutch guy called Dirk, who lived in a share household; he was going to get Paul some dope. I was enjoying life without drugs: Amsterdam now seemed so long ago and far away. Apparently Dirk also knew of a job with a gay magazine.

‘Well, that’s great, because I was at the doctor’s today and I’m pregnant.’

My emotions were mixed. On the one hand, I longed to allow myself the jubilation that would normally accompany such news. My adoption had cut me off from family and I’d begun to think I’d never see anyone related to me. I was curious: What would my baby look like? What colour eyes and hair would it have? Yet, on the other hand, I felt apprehensive: How could we care for a child? We were just like children ourselves.

Despite my ambivalence, Paul’s reaction—not unexpectedly— was one of undiluted jubilation. But my practical side overrode my emotions.

‘I can’t see how we can have this child—I’ll have to have an abortion,’ I announced.

‘No . . . it’ll be fine. I’ve got a good chance of work and I can’t believe you’d want to abort
our
child.’

But I was dubious that we could support ourselves. Paul was only twenty—he was way too young to be a father. He protested that his mother was only nineteen when she had him, and she managed.

‘Yeah, and look how that turned out,’ I said, reminding him that he was brought up by Omoe, who had a huge family to support her. I told him that I had a pre-abortion appointment with my gynaecologist.

But Paul wanted to celebrate and insisted on calling Dory to invite her out. So I arranged dinner in Lygon Street. I was feeling apprehensive.

‘We have some wonderful news for you,’ he announced, uncorking the bottle of champagne he’d bought. ‘You’re going to be a grandmother.’

Dory was in shock. ‘Nikki-le, how far along are you? Because, if you possibly can, have an abortion.’ She turned to Paul, angrily telling him to put the champagne away.

‘About two months,’ I replied.

‘Well, then, it’s not too late.’

‘No,’ said Paul. ‘I don’t want her to have an abortion. I’ll work two jobs—even three—to support this baby.’

When Dory pointed out that he wasn’t actually qualified for anything, he was emphatic: he would do whatever it took—factory work, stacking shelves in supermarkets . . . anything at all. ‘I want this baby,’ he kept repeating.

The atmosphere was sombre and tense.

Driving home, Paul’s assessment was that Dory was just bitter because of her own infertility. ‘Secretly she hates you.’ He scowled.

I told him he was being ridiculous: she was just a practical woman who thought the timing was bad and Paul was too young.

‘And I don’t like the way she keeps talking about Francine,’ he continued. ‘What is she—some kind of surrogate daughter?’

‘No, they’re just friends. I’d like to meet her.’

So we arranged a dinner with Francine and I found her to be everything Dory described: charming and cultured.

Later, Paul told me repeatedly how he didn’t trust her. ‘She’s after your mother’s money.’

‘You’re paranoid—they just go to galleries together.’ I thought it was wonderful that Dory had young friends, but Paul remained unconvinced.

The visit to my gynae resulted in a date for an abortion. On the evening before, Paul pestered me relentlessly.

‘You know how much I love you . . . and how much I want this child.’ He begged me not to abort, saying how he’d work night and day to support me.

‘I love you too, and I want this child more than anything, but I just don’t know how we’ll manage.’

‘Trust me. Things’ll be fine.’

It wasn’t the first time Paul had used this phrase, but I wanted to believe him, so I cancelled my appointment.

I was deeply committed to Paul, but the enormity of my decision weighed heavily on my mind. Despite his youth, we would have to make it work. I knew a child would give me the sense of family—of blood ties—that I craved; perhaps Paul needed that too. He was often so tender and I had no doubt he would be a loving father.

The following day brought good news. He’d got a job as a graphic designer at a gay publication called
Now in Melbourne
.

I was ecstatic. ‘What did they think of your folio?’

‘They didn’t ask to see it. They hired me on the spot.’

I was worried that obviously they fancied him and things would go belly up when they realised he was married. He assured me they didn’t have to find out, and in fact they’d lined up another job in a gay pub. I was relieved that Paul had finally found gainful employment, although it all seemed rather tenuous.

‘Listen, Dirk’s having a fancy-dress party and I thought I could dress as a girl again . . . Maybe we could get me some high-heeled sandals.’

‘Mmm . . . I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’re skint—we can’t afford to spend money on frivolous shit. We’ve got a baby coming, remember?’

But Paul called me a party pooper, telling me it would be fun. Eventually I relented and we combed shoe stores all over town. His feet were extraordinarily large and his demands fairly specific: high heels (no less than four inches) and sexy, not practical. Finally, he found a pair of chintzy sandals that seemed to fit the bill.

The day before the party, he announced he’d changed his mind about wearing the sandals, saying he would dress normally after all.

‘Just return the sandals,’ I said.

‘No, I’ve worn them already. Don’t worry—they’ll come in useful for something.’

I couldn’t think what and was annoyed. We had spent a large percentage of our meagre income indulging his whim. Truthfully, however, I was relieved he’d decided against a public display of his womanly charms—it seemed somehow inappropriate.

Dory had been fretting about our housing situation and had spoken to her accountant.

‘I’ve been thinking of buying a house . . . if you could pay me a nominal rent.’

I was overwhelmed by her generosity and asked her if she was sure she could afford it.

‘Well, I have some savings—enough that I can afford a full-time nurse for ten years. I don’t ever want to go into a nursing home.’

Dory was adamant that, with a baby, we couldn’t live like gypsies any more. She stipulated one condition: the house had to stay in her name. ‘If Paul ever got his hands on my money, it would be gone in a flash—he doesn’t have any self-control. Has he got a job yet?’

I told her how he had two jobs—at a magazine and a pub— omitting the fact that they were in the gay community. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she said, telling me how Francine wasn’t impressed with him at all. ‘She thought he was like a smarmy snake-oil salesman.’

I defended him, saying that it was because she didn’t know him. ‘He’s not like that at all. And besides, I love him.’

I was having the perfect pregnancy and felt positively glowing as I watched my belly expand. Paul accompanied me to all my appointments, including my ultrasound where we both watched, him in tears. He loved my new shape, often rubbing my tummy and singing Dutch lullabies to our child. Our lovemaking too had a new tenderness as he took care not to hurt the baby. He would often forgo food so that I could eat healthily and would happily make me snacks whenever I got hungry.

Meanwhile, he’d also aligned himself with the gay scene in Melbourne and was constantly being invited to parties—most of which he declined. One evening, he went to a warehouse party. In my naivety, I queried him afterwards.

‘Well, it was basically a fuck-fest. There were holes in the wall and lots of anonymous sex. Don’t worry—I didn’t fuck anyone. In fact, I told them I was married with a pregnant wife.’ That, I thought, was the end of his employment.

Sure enough, both jobs ceased. I was relieved that this charade had come to an end. It seemed deceitful for Paul to take advantage of their obvious good nature. Besides, we would now have time to search for a house.

This proved to be a time-consuming activity. I didn’t want to live in the inner city with a baby and so we looked to Melbourne’s bushy outer suburbs. I spotted an ad for a Robin Boyd house in Warrandyte and insisted we check it out. I told Paul that Robin Boyd was one of Australia’s leading architects—part of the Boyd dynasty, Australian arts royalty.

‘Where the hell is Warrandyte?’ he asked; I described it as a beautiful suburb by the Yarra River. I’d spent a lot of time there as a child. So we drove to the house, and immediately I knew I’d found my home. The large picture windows looked out on to a pool and surrounding bush. It was perfect. All that remained would be to convince Dory.

Her visit there left her undecided.

‘But it’s a Robin Boyd house,’ I said, appealing to her snobbishness. I knew she had always admired him.

‘The house is charming, but it will need a lot of maintenance, and I’m not sure if Paul is up to it . . . and Warrandyte is so far away.’ Still, she said she’d ask someone else to have a look—her friend, Inge King, was one of Australia’s leading sculptors and she too had a house designed by Boyd.

Later that week, Dory called back with her decision: she’d talked to her accountant again and Inge had inspected it. ‘I’ve decided to go ahead with it.’

I was ecstatic.

6

It was a glorious spring day in 1984—eight months since we’d been back in Australia—when we moved into our new house on Kangaroo Ground Road. The paucity of furniture necessitated sitting on the floor, but we were content—I was six months pregnant with a loving husband and we had our own home.

Paul bought an airbrush and together we created a range of T-shirts to sell at markets. Diligently, we worked on our designs as I continued to teach stained glass. I’d given up on the idea of Paul getting a job in the current year, but we talked of him studying in the near future.

Paul finally received a letter from Saskia. While not overjoyed with being a grandmother at 39, she was apparently ready to accept me as her daughter-in-law.

A visit to the gynaecologist triggered ponderings about my adoption. He’d asked about my family history and I told him my mother died in childbirth. I was concerned this could be problematic—after all, I had narrow hips. He reassured me all would be well and the birth would be induced. After producing his diary, he announced it would be on a Thursday as Friday was his golf day.

Paul stayed with me throughout the labour which, as predicted, went smoothly. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl we called Shoshanna. Paul cried as he cut the umbilical cord. Surprisingly, she was blonde although her features were mine. This was the first time I’d seen anyone related to me by blood and I spent hours studying her tiny face.