The Gatwick Hotel

This morning I read the sad news that St Kilda’s most infamous boarding house, The Gatwick Private Hotel, is likely to be sold off and turned into boutique accommodation.

The Gatwick is an institution. Despite the ongoing and relentless gentrification and slide into sterility that has been the fate of St Kilda for many years, The Gatwick has remained as a bastion of solace and refuge for those in need. Its doors were always open for those who were down on their luck. Many of the residents include the mentally ill, those with substance abuse issues, sex workers, runaways, drifters, and the homeless. For a time, my mother was one of them. She worked there when she lived on the street; she was given a place to stay when she had nothing and developed a strong affection for the owner and her family.

The hotel is notorious for its drug addicted clientele, many with long criminal histories and chequered pasts. The Gatwick is no stranger to violence either, with numerous homicides joining the overdose body count. On average, police and paramedics visit the hotel about 4-5 times a week.

For those with nowhere else to go, though, the Gatwick has been a place to call home. It offered a sense of permanence and stability to many people for whom the ground under their feet was always uncertain. And more than that, it gave them a strong sense of community.

The three-storey art deco style hotel was originally built as a luxury establishment for single men, and was used to house navy personnel between the world wars. It was taken over by Vicky Carbone and her family in the late 1950s and has operated as a boarding house since then. Now run by Rose and Yvette, two of Vicky’s daughters, The Gatwick provides a place of shelter to approximately 90 people at any one time. The residents are also linked to services such as the Salvation Army food van, which provides essential nutritious meals for the residents.

The hotel has been disparaged both privately and publicly over the years, with news outlets such as The Herald Sun running stories declaring it as a “festering flophouse fleapit in Fitzroy St that grows steadily more notorious as the rest of St Kilda grows rapidly more gentrified”. Yuppies want it gone – I lived in St Kilda for years and heard countless conversations from shiny-haired interlopers, wrinkling their noses in disgust at the ‘bums’ congregating out the front. Reviews on the Gatwick Facebook page urge for it to be shut down, pointing to instances of violence, drugs and prostitution.

What’s missing in all the calls for its removal are viable solutions. The owners were only able to take over the hotel through the provision of a $2.5 million dollar low interest loan from the State Government, which was conditional on the Gatwick to continue providing low-cost boarding house style accommodation to tenants who are eligible for public housing. When you shut it down, where do those people go? Rents in Victoria are out of control and there are currently 34,726 people on Victoria’s public housing list, with people waiting approximately 7 years to receive stable accommodation.

The owners of the Gatwick are now retiring after more than five decades of compassionately caring for those on whom society turns its backs. Together with their mother, Vicky, they have provided a safe haven for those in need. My mother always spoke of Vicky fondly. I met Rose and Ettie when I was a kid, and we stayed there for a time when I was 13. We had nowhere else to go and we made the most of it.

Sure, the lobby smelled like booze and cigarettes and the shared bathroom facilities were unappealing, but my mother always impressed upon me the importance of having ‘a roof over your head’.

I remember opening the cabinet above the corner sink and hearing the voices of those in the room below us increase in volume. My brother and I stood there, opening and shutting the doors, hearing the swearing and laughter below rise and fall with the movement and finding a sense of joy in it.

The Gatwick is far from perfect but it has made an indelible mark on St Kilda and all who sail in her.

Message to my girl

Day Eight: Reinvent the letter format

Dear Seven-Year-Old Skye,

Take a deep breath, kid. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

You’re in Grade 1 now and you’re already on to your fourth school. I know this school doesn’t seem too bad; you’ve already got some friends here and you’re settling in well.

You always do.

You even had an actual birthday party and were allowed to invite five friends. Your mother may have arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the gender ratio of the invitees, with four boys and only one girl invited, but she didn’t say anything. She just bundled you all into the car and drove you to the Pancake Parlour, her cigarette smoke curling out of the driver’s seat window and into the opened windows in the back as you all played and giggled, your ginger curls bouncing as you turned to take in the view of your friends. She watched you steadily in the rearview mirror as she turned up the music to drown out the shrieking laughter.

It was a fun day, wasn’t it? You’ll remember every detail, over 20 years later. The crystalline blue sky was a perfect backdrop to the day – your Mum seemed ok, you got to celebrate your birthday, you even got some presents. You felt like you belonged.

Hey, kid? Don’t get too settled. You’ve got another 12 primary schools to go to before your Mum will let you stay put for a while. Don’t even think about the high school years.

The carousel is about to go into overdrive. It’s time for you to assume a crash-position and just ride out the next few years.

Sometimes you’ll come home from school and the books will be packed, boxes will be strewn across the living room and Mum will have that look in her eyes. She’ll tell you that you’re all moving away, and sometimes you will. Sometimes you’ll pack up the car and move to a new house, start a new school. Sometimes she’ll work through the mania and tire of it after a few weeks or a few days and you’ll tentatively relax back into the same old routine, feeling safe that you can stay. But until then, you need to be prepared.

You’ll want to cry and protest and demand to stay. Half the time your remonstrations will be ignored, but the other half? That will be used as ammunition.

She’ll ask why you want to stay here, why you care about this town, and you will be so desperate that you’ll tell the truth. You will cite your desire to stay and finish school like all the other kids. You will say that you like it here. When the panic rises up inside you, you’ll break and say that you want to stay because you have friends here and they care about you. Don’t do it.

Never say that.

She will seize upon it and use this to her advantage. Her blue gaze will meet yours and the corners of her mouth will curl up as she accosts you with a pitiful smile, her eyes burning. “They’re not your friends, Skye,” she’ll say as she stands a little straighter, her voice sharp and full of vitriol.

Looking across at your brother, they will share a knowing look and his complicity will goad her on.

“None of them are your friends. Can’t you see that?” The edge will slip from her voice and will be replaced by a cloying sweetness. Try not to crack. No matter what you do, do not take the bait and do not let that tenderness get to you.

“You’re just a joke to them, Skye, they all make fun of you. They are not your friends. They don’t care about you.”

Don’t listen. Find a way to shut it out, to shut it off, to build a wall. Do not engage. Build up your reserves of strength and learn to ignore her when she’s like this. Don’t look to your brother; you’re not a team. You are an obstacle to him being able to move, to change, to hide from whatever problems have been created at this school, in this town.

Remember that when it comes down to choosing between working through a problem or packing up the car and heading for the highway, he and Mum are in this together and they’re always living with one foot out the door.

And remember this, kid. Your friendships will be the most important relationships you will ever have. Trust your judgement. Your friends will become your family and you will share a love with them that is safe and true.

Stay strong.

Love,

Skye from the world of tomorrow

Hands upon the wheel

As a child, I was always shocked by the silence of my friend’s houses.

There might be conversation, and the constant chatter of siblings. There might even be chaotic arguments between family members and blaring televisions hypnotising viewers with advertisements about the latest weight loss treatment or the coolest new toys that you needed to buy now, now, now.

But there was so rarely music playing.

Taking drives with friends’ parents elicited the same sense of surprise and a deep-seated sense of uneasiness; everything was so quiet, so ordered. There would be talk-back radio playing softly, or top 40 songs buzzing in the background, but music was never the focus for their parents.

My mother was different.

Our house was alive with music, with sounds, with dancing, with movement. Car trips with her would start with the cassette player clicking efficiently, the music picking up where it left off when she had last turned off the engine. We never had a CD player growing up – they were too expensive for us, so tapes and records were the mainstays in our house and in the car.

Each car trip would involve a careful selection, a finger running down the spines of much-loved cassettes, choosing the one to set the tone or suit the mood. We’d pull up to the lights in Mum’s Chrysler, parked next to a mini-van or safe-looking sedan, and from our car you’d hear pumping drums and wailing guitars and see the three of us singing or incorporating a variety of air-guitar and air-drum moves as Janis Joplin or Hendrix or Zeppelin or Cream played. Mum would laugh as the stern suburban ladies would glare reproachfully, and her car would squeal off from the lights once the green said go, go, go.

I often wonder if she was afraid of what lived in the silences.

By turning up the stereo, she could drown out the memories, dance away the trauma, and lose herself in the record’s crackle and pop. Her blue eyes would meet mine in a challenge, a demand, an entreaty, to get up, to join her, to turn the volume up until you could no longer resist moving your hips to the music and feel the bass vibrating through your body.

She wrapped the music around her, moving to its staccato rhythms, never stopping, never staying still for too long. She was always on the move, with the devil on her tail. If there’s an afterlife, she’s driving into lost horizons with one hand on the wheel and one hand reaching to turn the music up, up, up, blue eyes trained on the road and her slender fingers tapping to the beat.

Time

Gemma barely noticed as the rocks grazed the soft soles of her feet as she climbed to the top of the cliff.

She loved the feel of the salty ocean spray that covered the bare skin on her face, her arms, her porcelain pale legs. She was mesmerised by the crashing waves, the squawks of the seagulls, and the need to climb, high, higher, to the peak.

Chinaski padded along beside her, occasionally running ahead to nip at a passing fly or investigate some strongly scented bushes. His dark flank gleamed in the late afternoon sun as he trotted contentedly up the incline, his strong legs accustomed to these ambulatory afternoons.

Gemma moved single-mindedly up the cliff, her slight frame racing against the dying light of the day. It was a ritual, a tradition, and it wouldn’t change just because everything was different now.

“Come on, bud, let’s go,” she called to Chinaski, causing him to momentarily stop his sniffing and his moist brown eyes to dart towards her as she moved past him. He buried his head in the bushes before playfully dropping to the ground, grinding his shiny fur into the dirt and sand as he rolled from side to side.

Gemma smiled in spite of herself, stopping to rub that vulnerable pink belly before standing up and clapping her hands on her thighs to encourage him to continue the walk. He stayed on his back, paws up in the air for a minute, before rolling to his feet and bounding after her. Excited yaps filled the air as he raced past her, stopping only to run back and circle her twice, his wet nose nuzzling her thigh and snuffling at the bag hanging low off her shoulder, before heading back up the cliff.

“We’re nearly there, boy. Come on, now.” Gemma’s voice sounded husky, her throat ragged, as she willed them both up to the top.

Her hand ached from gripping the bag tightly, her fear of losing the contents causing her to clutch it to her the entire way up the rocky path.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon as she and Chinaski reached their spot at the top of the cliff. She inhaled deeply, the tang of the ocean air filling her lungs as she reached down to scratch Hank behind his velvety ears. She reached into the bag and pulled out the lightweight blanket, and spread it on the clearing, weighing it down with a water bottle and guiding the hound over to the blanket.

She only had a few minutes left, but she felt safe now. She had reached the spot and she knew what she needed to do. Closing her eyes, Gemma sighed and braced herself for what came next.

Reaching into the bag, she pulled out the final item.

Gazing up at the bruised purple sky, streaked with golden light, she carefully unscrewed the lid.

“It’s still our spot,” she whispered. Chinaski looked at her, a slight whimper a response to her unasked question.

Standing, Gemma carefully inched her way as close as she could to the side of the rocky outcrop. The slight breeze stilled, as if in preparation for what she had to do.

“I love you. Now and always.” Her words were loud in the sudden silence, resolute and firm.

With a final movement, she shook out the ashes into the stillness and watched as the fell below, drifting down to the water, some catching on the rocks, lodging themselves in the sandy cliff. Staring out as the sun continued its descent, she hugged her knees as images of her husband flitted through her mind. Chinaski nudged his nose into the crook between her head and her legs, his tongue catching the tears as they fell.

Smiling ruefully, she buried her face in his fur. It had been so many months since they had lost him, but now was the time to let it go.

She was ready.

Power in the word

In my family, logic and rationality were cause for narrow eyed suspicion. If you didn’t agree with their latest conspiracy theory, you were clearly Working Against Them and not to be trusted.

Reality was fractured and underlying mental illnesses were left undiagnosed.

The fallout from this is still being felt and writing about it and sharing stories with others is an effective way to process it all.

Writing about mental health and researching its causes and symptoms is a way to not only make sense of these experiences, but also to find the art in the story. It is a way for me to take all of these disparate threads, these bizarre interactions and half-submerged memories and create something new.

There’s power in that.

My mother died almost 17 years ago, but my brother is still here. Physically, at least.

His brain is broken; the damage is as irreparable as it is heartbreaking.

I hope that through writing about growing up in an environment so far left-of-centre and of walking the tightrope between sanity and the black cavernous despair on the other side, I might be able to make some sense of it and to find a way to help him.

Paranoiac bloodline

“Shh. Someone is listening.”

For as long as I can remember, my mother believed we were being watched. Someone was always around, listening in on the phone, driving by our house, or living in our roof. Spying on us, keeping tabs.

“Do you really think we’re alone here?”

My brother believed every word, and the two of them were vehement about hearing the ‘clicks’ on the landline phone. The receiver would be thrust into my hand for me and I would be commanded to listen, to hear, to finally agree that the clicks were there. They would both smirk triumphantly, secure in the belief that these clicks were evidence that our every word was being recorded.

All I ever heard was the dial tone.