Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (44 page)

Years later, in June 2004, I was at work when I received a call that Trudie had died from a stroke. Although saddened, my grief paled in comparison to that experienced at Dory’s passing. Our contact in recent years had waned, reduced to the mandatory birthday and Christmas cards.

Nevertheless, Shoshanna, now twenty, and I travelled to Queensland for the funeral. Although successfully excluding me from her world during life, Trudie had no choice in death. I placed a sympathy notice in the paper from ‘the daughter lost to adoption’, effectively announcing my existence, just as Paul had done with Brian.

I only ever saw Trudie twice. On the second occasion—in her coffin—her arthritic hands clutched a photo of Bob Farmer, the husband she was with so briefly.

Walking into the Ayr Catholic Church as chief mourner was an undeniably surreal experience. Feeling something of an impostor, I watched as all eyes fell on me—the daughter she’d kept hidden from this large congregation.

After the funeral, my aunt requested our help in cleaning up Trudie’s flat. I’d read about hoarding disorders before, but nothing prepared me for the reality of the squalor. All available space was cluttered with stuff. The place was unliveable. Her kitchen was caked with filth to the degree that cooking would have been unfeasible; her bedroom was so messy that she’d been forced to sleep on the couch; and she’d been washing her clothes by hanging them out and hosing them down, as the laundry was over-run with vermin. I knew excessive hoarding was classified as a symptom of obsessive compulsive disorder, and I now understood why she had never let me visit. I was saddened to be learning more about Trudie in death than in life.

It took days to disinfect and clear the tiny apartment; several dump bins were filled to capacity. Among her mouldy books I found the photos and cards I’d sent, completely covered in mildew. Apart from a few trinkets, I brought home very little: some Women’s National Emergency Legion insignia from her time in the Australian Women’s Land Army, four copies of Bert Hinkler’s biography, and a badge and plastic mug from the Catholic Women’s League.

These, I felt, symbolised my birth mother—and I would treasure them—but how different from Dory’s multi-faceted life. There was no doubt in my mind: I was Dory and Egon’s child, not Trudie and Allan’s.

27

One evening back in December 1993, eight months after Paul and I had returned to Melbourne, we were watching the nightly news. The lead story was the second victory by Capital Duplicators over the ACT government in the High Court. The earlier decision had ruled that only the federal government was empowered to levy excise duties. Now came the judgment—also from the full bench—that the 40 per cent franchise fee on X-rated videos sold from the ACT was indeed an excise. The court had quashed the levy and ruled the tax unconstitutional. John Lark had finally won, albeit a Pyrrhic victory.

Ben and Ya’el were gurgling happily in their playpen after dinner; Shoshanna was helping me clean up as Paul erupted.

‘Those fucking bastards! Those cunts! They caused us to go broke, and now their tax has been overturned.’ He was ropable. ‘We could still be in business if it wasn’t for those fucking Canberran politicians.’

‘Stop swearing in front of the children,’ I scolded angrily, telling him to calm down. ‘I know it doesn’t seem fair, but that’s what happens when you go into porn: it’s always on the outer—that’s why the rewards are so high.’

‘There were twelve operators before the tax, and now there are barely any. I wanna know if they’re gonna repay what they took,’ he ranted. We had paid a fortune to the ACT government—and had additional costs from operating out of Darwin, not to mention the legal fees we’d contributed through AVIA. ‘We should
all
be reimbursed.’

‘We should—but don’t hold your breath,’ I warned him.

Paul became pensive. ‘You know, this could have implications for all the other state taxes.’

Paul was right, and later we read the fine details of the judgment. Had all state fees been declared excises, the states could have expected multibillion-dollar-refund claims from the alcohol, tobacco and petrol industries. We discovered that the High Court had limited its decision to the X-tax—and specifically forbidden the re-opening of any old cases, thus forestalling any such challenges.

This landmark judgment nearly caused a major meltdown for the federal government. Apparently Prime Minister Paul Keating was ready with emergency safety-net legislation which would have ensured the Commonwealth could have collected revenue on the states’ behalf. In anticipation of an adverse decision, the ACT government had already passed an act limiting liability for damages and refunds by bankrupt companies for a tax later ruled to be invalid. Thus, in one fell swoop, the government had denied the industry justice. None of the monies paid to them would ever be recovered, nor would we gain compensation for the loss of our businesses.

By the time of this decision, John Lark had already liquidated his interests in porn, losing millions in the process, and gone bankrupt. He was nevertheless canvassing the possibility of seeking damages against the ACT government for what he considered their role in Capital Duplicators’ demise. He had moved to Moscow, intending to enter the porn industry there, but, due to the Russian Mafia’s presence, he was now successfully promoting classical music concerts instead.

Gerry Hercus got in touch soon after the court decision. With his business picking up, he commissioned Paul to write movie reviews of German and Dutch videos. Paul’s spirits lifted immediately as his superlative copywriting unleashed his ingenuity yet again. It seemed as if he could only be creatively fulfilled within the porn industry.

From an article in
The Bulletin
in 1994, we learnt that our old office became a duplicating plant, turning out 14,000 porn videos a week. In Darwin, Gerry announced that he was planning a legal challenge against the federal/state agreement whereby each state receives $35 every time an X-rated video was classified. Over the previous decade, state coffers had been made $1.16 million richer by X-rated porn. Why, he asked, should the states profit from something they do not allow to be sold legally?

The article had sparked discussion one evening after the children were in bed as Paul related how even some feminists were now supporting porn. I’d always thought of myself as a feminist, but there was a dichotomy in the ideology—it depended on whether one believed the women were exploited or in control.

‘It’s the same as the argument about prostitution,’ I said. ‘Frankly, it can be either, depending on the situation.’ I had long thought porn was the single biggest conundrum facing feminists. I’m a sex-positive feminist in theory, but I’m still conflicted about my participation on a personal level—not that I consider myself a victim. I don’t regret it . . . but I would have done things differently if I had my time over again. I loathed anything that commodified or subjugated—and some would argue that that’s what the whole Horny Housewife brand was about.

But Paul described it as a social fantasy. ‘Together we created the perfect fantasy couple.’

‘Yeah, you masterminded the whole operation and I went along with it: I was the face and body. Calling me the Un-Horny Housewife would have been more appropriate!’

‘Yeah, how ironic—promoting you as a wild, wanton woman while we were celibate,’ observed Paul, with more than a hint of bitterness. ‘Still, our stuff was never violent; we never hurt anybody.’

‘Except maybe each other . . . and the kids.’ I preferred not to dwell on any harm we may have visited upon our precious children. Porn could be very damaging. One had to balance its exploitative element against freedom of speech issues and the right not to be controlled by censorship. And it scared me how ‘pornified’ our society had become, with porn somehow seeping into mainstream media. I abhorred the thought of little children being sexualised by it. ‘God forbid if any of our kids contemplate a career in it,’ I said. That didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Still, one has to differentiate the sicko stuff from the healthy porn,’ said Paul.

‘If there is such a thing,’ I scoffed.

‘I mean the ethical stuff that doesn’t denigrate,’ Paul continued. ‘The non-violent erotica. The industry needs to be regulated to avoid exploitation.’

‘At least we had creative control . . . and still own the copyright on all our stuff. I’d say that’s a pretty unique situation.’

‘True,’ said Paul.

At this time Paul had predicted that soon there would be an explosion of porn. ‘All the new technologies around will make it almost impossible to regulate.’

‘Hmm . . . interesting times ahead,’ I’d mused.

But that had been more than ten years earlier, and it felt as though it was even longer than that. Now in Melbourne, I was taking on extra hours at the library and struggling to raise the children on my own. Paul was totally broke and the children’s visits to Queensland had all but ceased.

I lived for my children as I watched them grow and achieve their milestones. Shoshanna was doing an accountancy and commerce degree at uni; Ya’el had won a swag of art competitions; and Ben was singing with the National Boys Choir of Australia (often dubbed the Qantas Choir, because of the well-known ads), performing here and overseas. Through Ben’s interest in music, I reconnected with my love for singing and joined a community choir.

Meanwhile, I was working diligently on my retro greeting cards, completing over one hundred designs using public domain photographs; I luridly colourised images of movie stars in a Warhol style, and then collaged them onto garish backgrounds with humorous or smutty speech bubbles. Everyone agreed the results were stunning; for the first time since my glass-blowing days, I was producing artworks of which I was proud. Finally, I had found an artistic medium in which I was comfortable.

A meeting with the Ink Group’s marketing manager seemed extremely promising; she was proposing to print a range of my cards, and suggested that I think of a title for the series. Without warning, they withdrew their offer and I decided to self-publish under the name ‘Let’s Get Retro’. A Sydney distributor supplied them to some of the more alternative shops Australia-wide and orders soon followed. I knew that eventually they would be perfect to market as framed pictures and T-shirts.

For Christmas 2004, I posted my regular card to Julian Durie’s chambers. I was shocked when it was returned unopened with an unsigned, terse note on the envelope informing me he was dead. I was devastated, remembering fondly our one passionate night together, although mainly saddened for his family. Immediately, I googled him and found the obituary. Apparently, he had committed suicide after a period of deep depression. His passing was lamented by the legal profession, too—it seemed he might have been destined to become a High Court judge.

I had begun a relationship with a lovely man who was about as far removed from Paul as possible: stable and conventional. I’d known him in primary school, and he had become a teacher. I realised what I knew all along—that it was me that was normal and capable of having a fully functional relationship. Contrary to what Paul had accused me of I didn’t move him in, ever, as I continued raising my children, working at the library and doing my artwork.

In early 2009, I noticed a distension of my abdomen. A CT scan confirmed that I had a massive ovarian cyst. Despite numerous visits to casualty, surgery was dubbed elective and scheduled for three weeks hence at the Mercy Hospital.

On waking from the anaesthetic, I was told that my cyst had weighed 5 kilos. Apparently, if it had not been for a full blood transfusion, they would have lost me.

28

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, Nikki?’

‘Yeah . . .’ The phone had woken me and I was drowsy, but I recognised the voice instantly.

‘It’s Deirdre here in Brisbane. Sorry to call so early in the morning . . . Paul’s passed away.’ Her voice was flat, almost matter of fact.

‘Oh no . . . no . . .’ The deep sense of loss hit me instantly.

‘I found him this morning. He was sleeping in the basement and I went down there . . .’