Open Writing

In April 1959 Gerry arrived on my doorstep—early 30s, about 5'6", dapper, articulate, trim-bearded and looking much like his alter ego, Ernest Hemingway.

He was keen to move in as he was about to start work as a reporter on our local weekly paper. Previously, he informed us, he'd been the society correspondent for a national daily, covering the life-styles of the rich and famous: to verify this he showed us his press cuttings, which included photos of him socializing with two of the 'hottest' film stars of the time, Anita Ekberg and Anthony Steel.

However, he was keen to explain that the reason for his career change was a desire to swap the rigours of Fleet Street for a less stressful way of life in the country; besides which, as a jobbing journalist on a 'weekly' he'd have more time to finish writing his novel (nowadays I would think Oh yes? I don't think so, matey, but not back then, with my blind faith in human nature).

We soon grew to like his charismatic charm—so much so, that we invited him for meals and to watch television—regarding him more of a friend than a tenant. My three year-old son also fell under his spell, often waiting on the bottom stair for a chat with 'Uncle' Gerry.

Came the summer and Gerry's editor assigned him to cover the local agricultural show—prize bull, champion sheep-dog, biggest marrow etc., etc. Four days of tedium, only relieved by frequent visits to the Bar tent.

Thus it was, that at the end of his first day, he returned home so quietly that we only learnt of his condition when my son went to play in the hall but came back to ask 'Why is Uncle Gerry sleeping on the stairs?'

'I expect he's had a very tiring day,' I replied. 'We'd better get him to bed.'

The next day there came a tentative knock on our kitchen door; opening it revealed a contrite figure in dark glasses, who said 'Sorry about llast night, 'fraid I had a few too many with the farming fraternity. It won't happen again, I promise.'

'That's OK, Gerry, nothing to worry about.'

But there was plenty for us to worry about over the next three evenings—two of which were variations of the first incident, but the final night was a humdinger for he was delirious and hallucinating, which was scary and unpredictable.

Gradually we talked him back to reality, with my wife comforting him until he fell asleep on his bed; we spread newspaper around (just in case), and withdrew. The rest of our night was largely taken up with how to solve the 'Gerry Problem'.

There was only one way, and by morning I was determined to take it. I let him sleep late, then by way of an excuse, took him a cup of tea. Before he could say anything I told him we thought his drinking was out of control, and that he should seek help before it wrecked his life.

I put it to him that as much as we liked him, it was unfair to make us responsible for his welfare, and therefore it would be best if he left.

When he looked at me with doleful eyes and said 'Won't you give me another chance?' my steely (Ha!) resolve nearly buckled, but I knew another chance would become one of many, so I gave him a straight answer: 'No Gerry, it just wouldn't work.'

He went home to his parents, and a few weekks later his girlfriend (a very young actress he'd got to know when writing reviews for her repertory company) called for some laundry he'd left behind.

My wife,not knowing if the sweet ingenue was aware of Gerry's 'condition', felt she should offer some tactful caution, so she asked 'You do know what you are taking on?'

'Er . . . what exactly do you mean?' she enquired.

'Well, you know Gerry has a problem?'

'Oh yes—he's put all that behind him now.'

'That is good to hear. Give him our best wishes, and good luck to you both.'

Later, when my wife told me of this tete-a-tete, I asked her for her impression of Gerry's young admirer.

'I got the feeling,' she remarked, 'that the poor girl believes love conquers all—another disillusioned idealist in the making, I guess.'

*This 1945 film won Ray Milland an Oscar for his role as a chronic alcoholic pursuing a four-day drinking bout.

© John Turner

John writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please click on www.bonzer.org.au