Little Boys Alone

The Accident

July 19, 1965

The heavy overcoat on patient 15344 saved his 6-and-a-half year old life. “Young boy was admitted after being run over by a car”, read the report from St Vincent’s Hospital.

Tim was under the care and supervision of his brother at the time. That was me.

It wasn’t a car it - was a one tonne Hertz van. Our intersection was a busy black spot. That day I was sitting on the doorstep at 186 Palmer street East Sydney unable to enter.

I was waiting for the unreliable babysitter arranged by my unreliable father. Just a few weeks past my eighth birthday, I walked Tim home every day from school at Crown street in Surry Hills. It was a considerable distance, crossing major roads.

This cold Monday afternoon – it had snowed in the mountains - the sitter didn’t materialise, so Tim sat on the door step and I perched on my upended Globite school bag. Heavy traffic came off the Harbour Bridge and up Palmer street in those days, turning left into Stanley street. It was three lanes becoming two, and a dangerous intersection. A van ran out of control, and up onto the footpath over the top of us.

I jumped out of the way, because I was seated higher than Tim. I could vault off my bag. He didn’t have a chance.

The van ground along the stone wall, and came to a halt in a cloud of smoke.

Tim was lying low across the step, wearing his heavy woollen coat, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. I ran at the driver, yelling at him and trying to hit him. A crowd of people materialised, yelling different things. A lady tried to comfort me, but I was attempting to drag Tim upright, telling him to wake up so we could go inside.

A yellow ambulance arrived, and a police car.

The Police took me to St. Vincent’s, behind the Ambulance.

I couldn’t go into the emergency room.

“On arrival he was semi-comatose, pale and shocked. While in casualty his condition deteriorated, he became more shocked. His abdomen became rigid and bowel sounds disappeared. Emergency operation was given after a blood transfusion”, wrote Dr. Graham.

Someone bought me a Strawberry Flavoured Milk, I took a sip and almost threw up.

Dad arrived, in a terrible state.

Next morning we had a phone call, via the shop over the road, as we had no phone. Dad took off up the hill, almost running, me dragged along, he mumbling and muttering. Tim had died on the operating table, and been revived. They wanted to give him his last rights.

He had lost a kidney, some of his liver, had a ruptured spleen, stomach damage, a broken leg and – we already knew – was deaf in one ear.  He smelled sick, looked sick, and was surrounded by worried doctors and nurses. He had tubes coming out of his little body, and couldn’t stop vomiting.

He had three more operations, and spent three months in hospital.

(Picture: us boys, at the scene of the accident prior)

HOME ALONE

This was the selfish 60's. Mum had run away to Europe, chasing her lover, the otherwise married Reverend Douglas Cole. She was away for two months at least, or so it was planned. She had already divorced dad, and he lived over the hill at Potts Point.

Someone needed to care for us two boys. Dad moved into Palmer street, and as he had a job at the time, he needed to get a baby sitter.

A lady with a love of Sherry was to meet us at home after school, she didn’t turn up.

Mum was in Greece and took a message at the hotel. Dad didn’t have a phone, so he called back on a payphone, on a really bad line and a limited number of 2 shilling coins. They connected, and she got an idea that one or both her children were involved in an accident, condition unknown.

24 hours later, they spoke again, and she heard about Tim.

She told me a few years before she died that she went into shock, and then hid.

She took a week to get back home. She was matter of fact when she said it. She was in denial, and then didn’t want to come home. Tim was crying for his mum every hour. His dad didn’t know what to do, how to comfort him, or me.

Eventually life became a routine of hospital visits.

When he was released, she took him to an island off Mackay, owned by a friend of hers. They stayed there for several weeks so he could convalesce, and so she could drink and screw Andrew, the sailor.

My little brother was weak and prone to sickness forever more.

As for me, when my parents died I went through an angry phase over each of them, for leaving us, and for not managing our recovery. They didn’t talk about it. They just got on with their selfish lives, and left us boys to fend for ourselves emotionally and often practically in our slum.