GOING DINGO
GOING DINGO  Abandoned at birth, George Lee’s childhood in England in the 50s was a roller coaster of extremes; at times loved and nurtured; at others, beaten and cruelly abused.  Brought to Australia at the age of twelve, George escaped from the tyranny of life at home only to find that life on the streets had its own dangers. George began years of life as a ‘state ward’ in both NSW and Victoria. In Victoria he was mostly treated fairly, humanely and even with compassion. In NSW, by stark contrast, George experienced inhumane, tough and often extremely brutal and abusive treatment.  ‘Fight or flight’ was George’s usual response to cruelty.  Escaping, or ‘going dingo’ was occasionally exciting and fun, but each brief taste of freedom cost him dearly.  George is a good storyteller. Every experience comes to life.   Happy times with good, caring people temper his painful memories of mental, physical and sexual abuse at the hands of people whose actions beggar belief. This true story elicits many strong emotions. It is compelling reading.	In Store Price: $AU22.95  Online Price:   $AU21.95 ISBN: 1-9211-1819-9 Format: Paperback Number of pages: 194 Genre:  Non Fiction
Author: George Lee and Jennie Thomas  Publisher: Zeus Publications Date Published: 2006 Language: English

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY STORYTELLER – AUTHOR: GEORGE LEE  

This is George Lee’s first book. It is fully autobiographical, telling the story of his life from his ‘unwanted’ birth in England in 1952 to late 1969 when he was finally freed from life ‘in care’ in NSW juvenile institutions, ironically known as ‘homes’. He is well credentialed to write about these places during the late 1960s.  

George’s early years were a roller coaster ride of highs and lows; at times he lived in fear within his family; at others, he found love and joy with his grandparents and with a caring foster family.  

George was brought to Australia in early 1965. Unhappy, he left home and spent time on the streets until he was found and committed to institutional life as ‘a child at risk’. After living under the harsh regimes at Yasmar, Mittagong, and Daruk, George fled to Victoria where he spent time in much more humane institutions and church homes. On his return to NSW, he discovered how brutal institutional life could really be in Mt Penang and, finally, in the infamous ‘Tamworth Boys’ Home’.  

All of this with only a few minor misdemeanours to his name! His main crime was a desire to be free, to escape. ‘Going dingo’, absconding, was a serious, punishable offence.  

George’s memories of his early years have been verified with relatives still in England . Although, memories of life in institutions in Australia are still very strong, details have also been verified by web searches and by revisiting the sites of these ‘homes’.  

George is a salesman by profession but has worked with his wife, Sandra, in a juvenile care ‘home’ in Wagga. Because he had little formal literacy skill education, George sought help in the authoring of this book, his memories of his youth.  

Co-Author and Structural Editor:

Jennie Thomas  

Jennie has had a career in Education: teaching, lecturing and tutoring in English and Reading in schools, teacher training programs and University. She holds a B. Ed. (Hons) degree from Deakin University as well as other teacher training Diplomas and Certificates.  

During her career, Jennie wrote many teaching papers for the Victorian Education Department as well as the stories of the ‘boat people’ for use in Social Science classes in Victoria High Schools . Her hobby is writing travel stories and making documentary DVDs.  

She is a member of the ACT Writers Centre.

1

The Making of a Geordie

Christmas Day 1956 was cold and wintry in the north of England but we were warm as toast inside by the glowing coals of the fire. Nanna Lee told stories of Christmas when she was a girl, Joan cuddled me on her knee and Grandad sat quietly chewing his tobacco. Suddenly the door burst open and a stranger appeared bringing with him a blast of cold air. No one responded to his greeting. The room became very quiet and still.

I shyly hid my face until the stranger turned to me and said, “Now then, George, it’s Christmas. You should be looking for toys. I’ll give you some clues.” Excited, I jumped off Joan’s knee and began to look everywhere. He sent me looking all over the house, but there was not a sign of a toy or a parcel anywhere.

Suddenly, he grabbed me, shook me violently and began to scream at me, “What’s the matter with you, boy? Are you stupid as well as dumb?” He beat me about the head until Grandad forced him to let go. When Nanna Lee took me into her arms to comfort me, the stranger snarled at her, “I don’t know why you bother with that bastard of a kid. He’s so dumb he can’t talk. He can’t even find toys. You need to beat some sense into him; make him talk properly. That’s what I’d do with the little bugger.” And with that, he turned, grabbed his coat and left the house, slamming the door behind him. The stranger was my father. He was drunk.

Apart from my sobs, there was silence in the small room until Grandad sat down by the fire again and spat his tobacco into the fire. He was angry. Nanna Lee rocked me until her silent tears, and my sobs, finally slowed to trickles. Joan sat at the table and buried her head in her hands. Our Christmas Day was shattered. There never had been any toys; we were too poor for a proper Christmas, but we had been happy.

The three people in that room were my family, my world. I had never known my parents. When I was born in a house in Manchester on February 13^th, 1952, I was thrust into the arms of parents who neither needed nor wanted a child. They named me George and left me. My father went back to the army and my mother returned to her trade on the streets of Manchester . I never saw her again. I never knew her.

After my birth, she left me in the care of her own mother, a vicious woman, by all accounts. Whenever I’d cried, she had bashed my head into a wall until I stopped screaming.  By the time welfare took me from her, my nappy was stuck to my skin, my body was over-run with lice and my skull had been broken.

My father’s parents took me in with open arms, even though they were no longer young and were very poor. By then, they had already raised thirteen children and Nanna Lee was all but worn out when her little Georgie came into her life. Their last daughter, Joan, was still at home and, for the first four years of my life, she was both mother and sister to me. She had a wealth of love to give to a small, unwanted baby.

They all loved me dearly and I grew to love them, too, with all of my small heart.

My early years were good years. We lived in the coal-mining town of Horden , in County Durham , Geordie territory. Our house was one of a row of miners’ houses similar to those on the TV show Coronation Street . Like most of the others in the street, the house had three bedrooms upstairs, no bathroom and no electricity. There was no hot water on tap; just cold running water and that was only downstairs. The toilet was outside. My sleeping place was in the bottom drawer of a three-drawer tallboy. The blankets, that Nanna usually kept there, were taken out to make room for me. 

I know I wasn’t an easy child to raise. I not only had a serious speech problem but, for some strange reason, even as a youngster, I had an adventurous spirit. I would go walk about even on the coldest, snowy day. Worse still, I would leave my clothes in a pile on the floor and take off naked, to my Nanna’s dismay. But Joan always knew where to find me. First she would go to the bus stop across from the local ‘fish and chip’ shop – it was my favourite place. I would beg people for a penny so that I could buy scraps from the ‘chippy’. It was not that I wasn’t fed, I just liked chips. Another place to look was the little park nearby. I loved the big rocking horse in that park and would ride for hours until Joan came to fetch me. Then, she would grab me by the ear and march me home, but she could never be cross with her George for very long.

As I grew older, I had to share her with her work and her friends. When she went out, I would sit in the front window waiting and watching for hours – waiting for her to come home. When she did come home, I would almost knock her off her feet in sheer excitement. Joan was full of fun and she taught me the joy and love of life.

Nanna Lee knew how much I missed Joan and she made sure she had time to play with me each day. Horden was a village by the sea and most days she’d take me down to the beach. I loved my special times with her. She was only a tiny lady but she had the biggest heart, the warmest smile and could give the best cuddles in the world. She could also give out a very sharp clip around the ear if I was out of line!

Down at the beach, we’d search together for winkles, a type of shellfish, to take home to cook. On the way back, we’d pick up pieces of driftwood to use in the fire. Nanna had a wonderful imagination. She’d be able to see things in the shapes of the driftwood.

“Look Georgie,” she would say, using her pet name for me, “Look, this is a dragon. We’ll have a dragon in our fire tonight. He’ll breathe good hot fire to keep us all warm.” At other times she would see a tortoise, or a lizard, or a rabbit, or even a dinosaur in the wood. As we wandered happily home again, she told me amazing stories about the creatures that lived in the driftwood.

Grandad used to take me to the beach, too, but we didn’t walk; we would go in his battered old truck. He made his very meagre living by picking up coal that had been washed up on the shore. He would put the coal into his small truck and then we would go around the streets selling it to the local people for their fires.

When I got bored with helping Grandad to pick up coal, I played on the beach. Along the back of the beach was a line of concrete anti-tank blocks, put there to stop the Germans from landing in the war. These were perfect for all sorts of games, a place where my imagination could run free. I was often the hero of the stories that Grandad told me at night when I sat on his knee by the fireside. My favourite stories were about the wild Viking invaders and my favourite hero was Eric the Red.

I loved my Grandad. He stood well over six feet tall and would never take a step back for any man. His word or handshake was his bond. His chair was by the fireplace. This was where he smoked, chewed his tobacco and ruled his house.  His word was final – and that went for everyone, my Nanna included.

Some of the things Grandad taught me horrified Nanna Lee but she was always quiet at home and never dared to say too much. He loved to stir me up and torment me, but all in fun. He would sit me on his lap and teach me to chew tobacco and spit the juice into the fire. He even taught me how to roll a smoke and how to swear. By the time he had finished with me, I could out-swear the best of them. He wanted me to be tough and would often say, “George, remember this, only the tough survive in life.”

Being tough was Grandad’s culture. He was a Horden man through and through; a Geordie mining man and those miners were all tough men. Even at my tender age, he taught me to be tough of spirit. He would not tolerate weakness. If I was out in the street playing and a child picked on me, there was no point in complaining to Grandad. He would just take me by the hand, walk me back outside to find the culprit, giving me lots of pointers on the art of street fighting on the way. I would then be encouraged to fight him or her. If I won, he would take me to the pub and brag to his Geordie mates about how, one day, his Geordie grandson was going to be a World Champion fighter. Then, he would treat me to a bag of chips, my very favourite food. While he went on yarning to his mates, I ate, listened and learned.

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