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Category:
Action/Thriller
ISBN-10: 097758447X
Type: Fiction
Pages: 367
Copyright: 2014
ISBN-13: 9780977584468
Price: $9.99 (eBook)
Always a Rolling Stone is a true story written with all the earthy excitement and suspense of work of fiction. Encompassing an extraordinary life of bittersweet memories, heartache, hardship and triumph
Always a Rolling Stone is packed
with amazing incidents of
“Terry’s” fourteen years as a
Policeman. However this is but a
small part of his often tortured life
journey. Originating from the
inner western suburbs of the
1940's working class suburb of
Leichhardt "Terry" was subjected
to considerable mental and
physical cruelty. Kicked out of
home which consisted of a tiny
caravan in one of Sydney's caravan
parks he fended for himself from
the tender age of 15 before
cutting his ties and moving to
New Zealand to build a new life
for himself.
Durign his working life Terry was
continually on the move and tried
his hand at an amazing range of
occupations from policeman to
salesman, private investigator and
small business owner.
Excerpt
Chapter One
It was a serene suburban Sunday morning in spring. The distant rattle of trams interspersed with noisy kookaburras mocking from the wooden power poles filtered through the wooden casement window of the bedroom awakening the three boys from their innocent slumber. Although it was only 6.00 am they had been in bed since 7.00 pm the previous night and they were eager to embrace the bright sunny day which beckoned them through the flimsy net curtains of the single bedroom window. Past experience had taught them not to get out of bed before their parents awoke so they whispered quietly at first so as not to disturb their parents slumbering in the adjoining bedroom. However, becoming increasingly animated, the boy’s voices soon increased in volume as they bickered over the spit races conducted on their bed heads. As usual, six year old Terry was coming last behind eight year old Michael and ten year old Paul who by sheer size and seniority always dominated. They simply forgot their father Henry enjoyed to a lie-in on Sunday and the chattering emanating from their shabby, cramped bedroom eventually penetrated the adjoining brick wall disturbing his slumber.
The three boys stopped talking as the bedroom door opened. Oh no. We’ve woken dad up, Terry thought fearfully. His terrified gaze went to the open doorway. That’s strange. Dad’s smiling.
Relieved to see their father’s apparent good humour, the three boys returned his smile.
“Come out you lot,” Henry beckoned, his wide grin displaying broad white false teeth hastily grabbed from the glass of Steradent where they had soaked overnight. The boys bounced off their beds, scrambling across the worn linoleum to the dining room, eagerly hoping for some rare treat from their father.
“Stand in line!” Henry’s smile had vanished replaced by a black, angry, maniacal look they knew only too well. Henry produced a wide, leather razor strop from behind his back. Grabbing Paul roughly by one arm, he dragged him forward while tugging his upper body downward. With his free hand, Henry ripped Paul’s pyjamas down to reveal bare white thighs.
“No dad! No dad, please,” Paul screamed in terror.
“I’ll teach you to be quiet,” Henry roared, whipping the strap repeatedly across his eldest son’s legs. Large red welts burst across the tender flesh as Paul howled in pain.
Aware of that they were next in line for the cruel punishment, Michael and Terry screamed and pleaded to no avail. Shoving Paul back into the bedroom, their father grabbed Michael who hopped and struggled to escape the flailing strop. “Keep still,” Henry demanded as his anger raged.
By now, Henry was out of control. The boys’ terrified screams only served to fuel his anger to a greater frenzy. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. The cruel leather cut deep into tender flesh until all three children were sobbing, deeply traumatised by the severity of the punishment and the betrayal of their father’s grinning countenance.
This episode was simply one of the many reasons that Terry didn’t remember his childhood with any fondness. Although he treasured some moments, by and large it was a miserable time. Born in the working class western Sydney suburb of Ashfield, he lived in Leichhardt for the first ten years of his life, where poverty and cramped, squalid living conditions were normal for the majority of the inner-city residents. As an English migrant, his father Henry, was proud to announce that he wasn’t “a ten pound Pom.” Alluding of course to a period of post war migration in which thousands of people from the British Isles arrived in Australia under the scheme of assisted passage. Under this arrangement, an individual could pay ten pounds to the Australian Government for the right to a berth on a ship packed with like-minded individuals hoping for a better life in the distant colony. Henry looked with scorn on “The Poms” who availed themselves of this opportunity. He looked with even greater scorn on those who complained about their lot when they didn’t immediately find things the same as, “back ‘ome”.
Henry originated from the village of Bury, just outside Manchester England, which was in the post war years, a bleak miserable place. During his younger years, Terry intended to visit his father’s birthplace because he wanted to understand what made the man tick. When the opportunity arose to visit England in his adult years, he travelled north from London, passing through Manchester. Although he was to some extent prepared by the pictures and stories he’d seen on television, when he eventually got as far as Manchester he changed his mind. Although the smoke stacks of the cotton and steel mills from his father’s era no longer belched forth coal fumes, Terry’s preconceived picture of the area was vindicated by the actual reality. The squalor, dour-faced factory workers and incessant rain were sufficient for him to understand how someone raised in the era of the Great Depression and the Second World War could turn out mean, ill tempered and violent.
Terry remembered his father as a man of medium height, with a head of thick straight hair, combed to one side and parted, which was the fashion in those days. His heavily lined face sported a brow deeply furrowed like a sheet of corrugated iron. He rarely smiled and was possessed of a jaundiced and pessimistic outlook on life, rarely finding qualities worthy of admiration among those who made his acquaintance. Unfortunately, Henry’s children also seemed to fall into this latter category. Mostly, Henry showed little interest in his offspring, apart from deprecatory comments resulting in their poor self-esteem. However, when their behaviour impinged negatively upon his world, he reacted with sudden and frightening violence.
On another occasion, when Henry came home from work in a mood more foul than usual, his hard, strong hands reached for Terry, gripping either side of the small boy’s head. Terry did not understand what he had done but something had obviously incurred his father’s displeasure. Lifting his youngest son clear of the floor, he hurled him across the room. Terry fell in a crumpled heap, too shocked to whimper in protest.
“Leave him alone!” Judy’s shriek brought her husband to his senses. Henry flopped into his favourite chair and he reached for the newspaper, reading sullenly as Terry scrambled to safety.
Although he could be excused for harbouring deep resentment, Terry didn’t hate his father. He never bore him any malice, despite thinking as a child that the perpetual ringing in his ears (tinnitus) was quite normal. The unrelenting sound akin to an angry mosquito was a result of the iron-fisted clobbering to his skull, or from being thrown across the room by his head. No, he didn’t hate him, but by God, he was terrified of him!
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