Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (37 page)

While the six-week cycle of mail-outs maintained a steady client base at Housewife Headquarters, we were still feeling the indirect pinch of the massive video tax. We were now officially doing business out of the Northern Territory, having opened a bank account and hired a post-office box there. Gerry’s Darwin staff were processing orders, doing the daily banking and despatching our videos—and, naturally, charging a fee. The unit price of the blank tapes was higher, because of the logistics of ferrying them north, and the courier costs to clients increased as most of the people on our mailing list resided on the eastern seaboard. Furthermore, orders for a mixture of tapes and bedroom goodies or TV apparel could no longer be sent in a single package, since only videos were despatched from Darwin.

Paul also began work on
Flesh
issue 4, expanding it to 64 pages (half being full colour) with 245 ads. Apparently, this made it the biggest genuine adult contact magazine in the country. We were now getting commercial advertisers, including (much to my chagrin) several raunchy 0055 numbers with titles like Heavy Breather, Slippery and Wet Explorations, and XXX-rated Confessions. In addition, there were many new features: a Send Us Your Smut competition, a Horny Housewife advice column, a number of Paul’s cartoons and, of course, erotic stories and pictorials, some from John’s extensive photographic files. Paul was also working on his ‘Dr Devo’ video-review column and had designed a snazzy logo with a stethoscope threaded through the lettering.

The contact ads themselves were becoming bolder, as were the accompanying photos. The advertisers ran the gamut of the bizarre: requests for fisting, breastfeeding, golden showers and ‘rubberists’. There was a rapidly expanding B& D section, with both dominants and submissives seeking partners: one master required females to be trained as slave-sluts, whereas another male wanted a mistress who would reward him with golden showers. As with all such contact magazines, much of the appeal lay in the very ordinariness of the advertisers—most were frumpy and middle-aged, usually photographed in their own homes.

Although my pregnancy was proceeding smoothly, I took time off from the office. I indulged my artistic bent by buying some large canvases and oil paints. Setting up a small studio in the laundry, I began a triptych of nudes in my distinctive cartoon style. I had almost forgotten how much fun a foray into creativity could be.

I was papermaking too: the ASIO shredder was actually providing me with an abundant supply of pulp. I was producing exquisitely textured paper, with which I was crafting hand-made greeting cards. I also began a retro range of collaged cards using colourised photographic images from the 1940s and ’50s.

The week before we moved into our new house, I gave birth to our second child—a beautiful bouncing baby girl we named Ya’el. Again I immersed myself in motherhood—the office and all the trials and tribulations of our business were the furthest thing from my mind. Six-year-old Shoshanna adored her younger sibling and helped immeasurably with her care.

Meantime I’d had an idea about how to find my mother. I told Paul how I’d already looked up the white pages—there were about 50 Smiths in Ayr—and I was thinking I could do a mail-out, asking if anyone knew her whereabouts.

‘Well, if there’s one thing I do well, it’s a mail-out.’ He proposed inserting each name and printing out address labels. ‘It’ll be just like doing freebie letters!’

‘No, no . . . I’ll hand-write the addresses,’ I said. I didn’t want to scare her off—that was, if she was still alive. I told him I’d say I was tracing my family tree and was seeking information about her, without actually saying she was my mother. At my Adoption Triangle meetings, they’d advised me to write that she was last heard of on my date of birth, saying that the date should jump out at her if one of my letters reached her.

‘I think that’s a great idea,’ said Paul supportively. ‘But since we’re moving, we’ll have to give our contact details as the PO box and the office phone number . . . in case she rings during the day.’

‘We can’t have her being greeted with “Good morning, Horny Housewife Hotline. How can I help you?”’ I cackled.

‘True . . . maybe we can use the fax number . . . and we’ll brief all the staff. And don’t worry—a seventy-year-old woman won’t realise what most Aussie males know: a Fyshwick post-office box is synonymous with porn.’

Paul had bought himself a laptop and often brought work home. One night I was preparing dinner when he plonked down on the kitchen bench an overflowing in-tray that Tanya had labelled
Paul
Must Answer
.

‘I thought you might find these amusing,’ he said. There were enquiries like:
Ask Paul if he’s ever heard of anyone having an
encounter with a vacuum cleaner
and
Does Paul think I should join
the ‘Dirty Letters Club’?
There was an amusing letter from some poor sod in outback Queensland who had used the local post office as his delivery address. But our video accidentally went to his home, where his wife destroyed it—apparently she thought we just sent stuff randomly through the mail. She was going to complain, but he told us to just ignore her angry letter when it arrived.

‘And now, the pièce de résistance!’ Paul composed himself theatrically, trying not to laugh, as I waited for what was to follow. In his polished German accent, he read the typed letter from Ludwig: ‘I sow the article in the adwerts I got from canbrra so I tenk and like order one Vidio Taipe. I lake to tay one and see the quality off teh tapes good ore bad, becors I have ben ript of manye times, I am so sorey for mein mistaiks in wraiting i am GERMAN and kant spell proply. OKY please send me mein order sun as possible so I kann order more. Mein burtsdate 20/4/43 . . . I tanking you.’ With that, Paul clicked his heels and bowed.

I was in stitches. ‘You’re making that up!’

‘No, see for yourself.’ Paul showed me the letter. ‘He’s even written “German” in capitals.’

Actually, I thought he sounded rather sweet and told Paul I was sure he’d appreciate a polite letter back in German. ‘And you can tell him you just bought a BMW.’

I had been missing the office atmosphere and was keen to return to work part-time, if only to ensure that everything was running smoothly. Paul, however, repeatedly reassured me that all was fine, and so what little spare time I had was spent trying to research my birth mother.

After some procrastination, I posted the fifty-odd letters to all the Smiths in Ayr, including stamped self-addressed envelopes for replies. It was not long before, in among all the ‘Sorry, can’t help’ correspondence, there was one from a woman who said she knew Gertrude well and had passed my letter on to her. I was overjoyed. Still, nothing prepared me for our first phone call.

Obviously, she didn’t want to hear from me. Gertrude, who wanted to be called Trudie, was worried her sister Bess would be handed one of my letters and phone—apparently they lived opposite each other. Trudie wanted me to tell Bess that I had all the information I needed. No-one knew about me, not even her sisters; I had three aunts and a heap of cousins, but no siblings.

She told me my father was dead, but refused to divulge his name or any details, other than that he was good-looking; later, she’d married a man whose name she happily volunteered—Bob Farmer. Despite him being eleven years younger, she had outlived him—he had died of cancer some years later.

Paul quizzed me excitedly afterwards. ‘So what’s she like? What did she say? When are you going to meet her?’

‘Well, it’s hard to tell,’ I said, somewhat nonplussed.

I recounted the phone call and related to Paul how I’d told Trudie I’d like to visit her in Townsville, thinking that it was far enough away from Ayr for her not to run into anybody. But she didn’t want that, although she didn’t exactly say so—she’d mumbled something about cyclone damage to her house.

I was hurt that she’d think I’d impose by staying there. ‘I was so overjoyed at speaking to her, I was practically in tears,’ I said, ‘but she wasn’t emotional at all . . . just matter of fact.’

She’d lied about her age to the hospital—she was 35, not 30, when she had me. I wasn’t sure what she looked like—but she’d promised to send me a photo.

‘So, are you a wog?’ asked Paul.

‘No—I’m third-generation Australian. Very Anglo-Saxon. Mainly English and Irish, but I have a German great-grandmother.’

‘So, you’re not Jewish at all?’

‘Well, of course I am, but just not genetically. I still think Jewish . . . and act Jewish.’

Trudie had proudly told me how our family was related to Bert Hinkler, the famous aviator who made the first solo flight from England to Australia in the 1920s, and she had kept talking about our related Walker family in Whitby. My Yorkshire ancestors were ship builders and master mariners. One of them apprenticed Captain Cook—apparently, they became firm friends and their correspondence still exists in a museum.

‘I don’t know all the details,’ I told Paul, in my confused state. ‘It was all a bit garbled.’

Two days later my Aunt Bess rang, having also received copies of my letter. True to my promise to Trudie, however, I didn’t let on that I was her niece. I fobbed her off, repeating the words that Trudie had asked me to say if she called. I did, however, take her phone number.

Adjusting to my new-found heritage was perplexing. I now had enough information to start ordering certificates from the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages. Meanwhile, I anxiously checked the mail for the promised photo. Sadly, I missed Dory more than ever; finding Trudie hadn’t allayed the pain of Dory’s death at all.

While I delighted in my role as mother to two adorable girls, my marriage was still celibate. Paul repeatedly reminded me, after my six-week check-up, that I could recommence sexual relations. However, I reminded him of our deal; besides, I had absolutely no interest in sex—with him or anyone else.

Predictably, he started cross-dressing and enemising again. I would notice the evidence when cleaning the house: his room was full of tissues stained with faeces, and the butt plugs and enema equipment were never far away. He displayed a pathological inability to throw anything out, whether it was an overflowing rubbish bin or ashtray, or an empty wine cask.