In and Out of Hollywood: A Biographer’s Memoir

Chapter 7

7
53 By 1956 Norine and I were no longer happy with each other. The quarrels over money and my constant mess of books and papers had worn her down. We moved into separate bedrooms at Boomerang Street. She began work as a trainee nurse at a hospital. She had in her a frustrated maternal instinct, and in addition to taking care of her patients she brought others to our home. They were gay men, whom she had us feed and clothe. One of these ragged dropouts with a green face had developed gangrene and died only minutes after the ambulance arrived. I found the use of our flat as a home for waifs and strays hard to deal with; my lack of sympathy in the matter shocks me in retrospect. At all events, it was obvious our marriage was over. She told me, one afternoon, that she had fallen in love with a fellow female nurse, who was friendly with her and with Colleen McCullough, who was also working at the hospital. They would share a home in the future. For years, memory played a trick on me, convincing me that the day Norine moved out I walked the length of Maroubra Beach in the heavy rain, much too shattered to speak. But now I know that in fact I took her departure as I have taken others in my life, very coolly in my stride; we had had a good time while it lasted, and it was the right moment to move on. Was I shocked to find that she was bisexual? Not really. Despite our wanting a child, I always felt, despite our love for each other, that neither of us was fully committed to a heterosexual relationship. I didn’t blame her and only felt sad for the loss of so much. Emotionally at a standstill, I embarked on a long period of celibacy. Rooming at a flat in Double Bay, I decided to build myself up physically . Celebrating the publication of my first Australian collection, The Earthbound and Other Poems, I took the advice of my friend, the writer Chris Koch (later, he would write The Year of Living Dangerously), and enlisted with a personal trainer, the copper-skinned Apollo Bruce Langstaff. He understood my fear of being seen at the beach in swim shorts, that my thinness and pallor and lack of muscle tone were to me causes of misery and despair. He found a little-used beach on the harbor, near Rose Bay, and began training me in shallow water; I slowly overcame my fear of drowning . The exquisite subtropical surroundings of sand and sea and flowering jacaranda were inspiring, and the diet Bruce put me on—oatmeal, fruit and whole wheat bread with peanut butter, fresh fish and vegetables, and light custards—gave me some badly needed pounds. Within six months, I had obtained an acceptable physique and a decent tan; I could go to the beach and feel proud of my body and swim quarter miles at North Sydney’s Olympic pool, in freestyle, with tumble-turns at the end of each lap. I soon learned to prefer saltwater pools; I even ventured into the surf and began shooting waves. Those hours of pleasure are with me still: the hot sand or concrete on my bare feet; the run into the ocean, watched by lifesavers in their towers; the sting of salt on eyes and lips; the scent of ozone; the feeling of strength as my arms carved through bright green water. I made new friends. Robert Hughes, later the famous art critic of Time magazine and the brilliant, best-selling historian of colonial early Australia in The Fatal Shore, was fair haired then, comely, slight, dazzling in his erudition and cynicism. He was going through a stormy affair with a pretty actress named Noeline Brown. I visited them often at the home of his brother, Tom, who later became attorney general of Australia. I became close to Jack Lee, the famous British director of A Town like Alice and Robbery under Arms, married to Isabel Kidman, a relative of Nicole. Long summer afternoons, at their beautifully restored colonial house, were delectably civilized and enlightening. Life became much more agreeable. A plump, energetic journalist named Tom Fitzgerald started up a weekly, Nation, which ironically was the 54 55 exact political opposite of the liberal American journal of that name...