ALL I KNOW

MARY COUSTAS
A memoir of love, loss and life From Australias favourite comedian

Born in Melbourne, but having lived in Sydney for many years, Mary Coustas is one of Australias best known actors and comedians. In 1987 she became a member of the ground-breaking stage show Wogs out of Work, where her comic creation Effie was born. This was followed by five seasons of the TV sitcom hit Acropolis Now. Her diverse TV, film and stage credits are numerous. In 2003 Mary wrote the self-help book for teenagers, Effies Guide to Being Upyourself. This is her first book for adults.

All I Know
A memoir of love, loss and life

Mary Coustas

Published by Allen & Unwin in 2013 Copyright Mary Coustas 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: info@allenandunwin.com Web: www.allenandunwin.com Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au ISBN 978 1 74331 565 1 Set in 11.5/15 pt Granjon by Bookhouse, Sydney Printed and bound in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC certified. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the worlds forests.

To those who showed me the way

Death is one of lifes few certainties. Escaping it is a privilege none of us have. I have been awakened by death. It has appeared in an array of guises throughout my life. As devastating and as threatening as its presence and eventual victory was in each case, I gained more from life because of it. Grief can be a lifes tourniquet. Shutting down to minimise the pain is a logical option. But its not the only one. This is a story about life and death, a memoir based on a part of my history about which I never imagined writing. But loss has driven me to try to find answers in what remains, to airlift myself to a place that serves me better than helplessness and misery. To reach out. This is my love letter to what lives on beyond the devastation. From as far back as I can remember I knew life was about death and death was about life and how they coexisted. In some moments, you see them standing side by side: the exact opposites in a co-dependent relationship. I have been witness to that many times. Death is an uncomfortable subject. As much as we know its unavoidable, we still choose to avoid talking about it. We fear it so much and, because of that, we underestimate who we might be in the face of it. Three very different deaths have taught me more about living than anything and everything else. They have been my biggest challenge and my most consistent inspiration. And they have taught me that living with grief is easier than living with the fear of it.

Collingwood
Everyone belonged

he year before I was born my father, at the age of thirtythree, suffered a major heart attack. It was the first of many. I never knew a time when I wasnt conscious of the fact that he could die at any moment. No one mattered to me more than my dad. And no one liberated me more. Maybe thats where the addiction to him and his way of looking at the world began: when you are born into a family where a parent is dying, you record as much as you can. You chronicle memories so that they can comfort you when that great loss finally occurs. You eradicate guilt. You say all that needs to be said, because to take it for granted is to be in denial of what is actually happening. Youre not pessimistic but realistic. And no matter what optimistic thoughts you try to convince yourself of, your instincts are telling you the precise opposite. You know somehow that guilt and grief are a formidable combination that you need to spare yourself. You know that by not exposing yourself in giving all the genuine love you have, you are hoarding a lifetime of regret.
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All I Know

It exacerbates weakness and gives credence to fear. And it is to live life in deficit. The first ten years of my life were spent in Collingwood, a working-class multicultural inner suburb of Melbournea community, to my mind, that had a place for everyone. The collision of differences was very apparent in Collingwood, whether it was cultural, physical or economic; everyone was marked with adversity in some way. And yet there was something very liberating about having nothing and nowhere to hide. We lived in such close proximity to challenge that there was no shame. We seemed to all fit in because of that. And there was comfort in knowing we were not alone. These were the unexpected benefits of being part of the working class. Everyone was different and yet everyone belonged. That was until children played out the issues of their parents in the playground, which of course I chose to do, as a vocal child of Greek heritage during the invasion of Cyprus by the Turkish in 1974I was simultaneously politicised and pulverised by the larger Turkish kids at my school as a result. Living in that community was like living in a very large, diverse and dysfunctional family of individuals: loving and supportive one minute, outraged and outrageous the next. Allegiances were built and dismantled daily depending on football scores, religious wars and fashion statements. Value was placed on character, which was one of the few attainable currencies in a poorer community. And there was room for individuality, for being outspoken, for taking issue with something, for outing problems. Nothing was muted by propriety. We worked with what we had and what we had was a feeling: a feeling that little things had bigger meaning and that, even though we appeared to have less than many others, our identities were not built on keeping up with the Joneses or the Papadopouloses. We were
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Collingwood

treading water momentarily with our own circumstances and letting the current of hard work, opportunity and progress move our future forward. And from where we found ourselves, which wasnt that bad, the only way was up. The Australian dream of a quarter-acre suburban block, complete with detached house and lush green lawns, was the antithesis of where we were living during those years. Our semi-detached house was on the main road in Collingwood and came complete with a tiny patch of concrete for a backyard. My brother Con and I created games based on what we had to work with, and one of those things was traffic. He would count the cars passing left to right and I would count the ones right to left. Points were scored according to whether it was a car, a motorbike, a truck, a police car or a bus that passed across your designated direction. The person with the most points after an hour won. It might not have worked up a physical sweat but mathematically it exercised its advantages. Chalk was another useful commodity in a concrete jungle, the bigger the piece the better. I remember one day my brother and I, together with his best friend Archie, went down to the Yarra River at the very end of our street in search of chalk. The Yarra in Abbotsford is bordered by a massive park; from our experience, you could find anything there: reluctant fish, occasional flashers and, often, chalk. My relationship with my brother at this point was somewhat strained. I think having your little sister tag along to everything was more than a little annoying for a young boy. Especially when she had plenty to say. I was a bit of a tomboy, too young to play with the older girls and more than comfortable around boys who loved exploring the neighbourhood as much as I did. On that day, we struck gold; or I should say Con did. He had found the biggest piece
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All I Know

of chalk that would see us through six months of four square and hopscotch on the pavement at the front of our house or in the lane behind it. Feeling very good about our afternoons loot, we decided a reward was in order. And what could be better in the heat of summer than a large triangular Glug Cola iceblock from the local milk bar? It was run by a Greek man called Jimmy who knew all the families in the area and his shop was on our street, a block up from our house. Before going any further into this story I should make a point in order to give some context to the choice I made in the event that was about to happen next. Here is my disclaimer: my brother and I would often lock horns over who got blamed for what at home. He had a face that looked incredibly innocent, not to mention the eyes of a vulnerable husky. I was the oppositecheeky and unapologeticand therefore the perfect beard, target and patsy for my brother to take advantage of. I must have appeared constantly guilty in the eyes of my mother, who found it difficult to suppress the very confident me as opposed to the sweet and somehow always genial, obedient and innocent Conwho, just quietly, loved nothing more than to set me up to take the fall. Opportunities for payback arose at the most unexpected moments. And this was one of them. So, Con, his friend Archie and I walked away from Jimmys milk bar that hot afternoon with our big Glug iceblocks in hand and mouth just as the notorious Park Street Gang turned the corner. Members of this gang came in every age, size and shape imaginable; the only constant amongst them was their sharpie haircuts and reliably argy-bargy barney-loving tendencies. (For those who dont know what a sharpie is, its a more stylish version of a skinhead. In Melbourne in the early 70s, sharpies were a force to be reckoned with.) And who better to reckon with my
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annoying, bigger than me, and somehow forever innocent, blame deflecting, shifty brother than this mob? And reckon they did. When they laid eyes on his chalk it was on. Fight! My reaction was one of smug satisfaction. Not exactly the reaction one would assume a sibling to have, I know. But hey, when opportunity knocks whats a girl to do but answer the door? A panicked Con yelled out at me in the middle of the fracas, Go and get Jim! If Im not mistaken, my response was a prompt and definite, No! And maybe, just maybe, I was smiling when I said it. It was at that point my brother looked at me and hissed, Bitch! Luckily though, Jim did hear the kerfuffle and came out and saved Con, Archie and the day. Not to mention the piece of sweaty chalk, which my brother had managed to stubbornly hold onto the whole time. I knew there would be a price to pay for taking that disloyal yet satisfying position and I happily paid it. But just between you, me, and my desire for gender and sibling revenge, it was completely worth it. Thats what Id call the rough patch of my relationship with my brother. I might not have had the physical ability to fight back but I thought I had some pretty ingenious and equally punishing moves. Like most kids, Con and I shared a bedroom. On one occasion, in the middle of the night when I was feeling unwell and chucky, I woke Con up to ask for some help. Con? I feel sick, I groaned. Predictably, during that loveless era, Con replied with typical warmth and concern, Stiff shit, Im sleeping. Go and tell Mum and Dad. So, I did what I had to do. I got myself up and, as I made my way to my parents bedroom, but not before a major stop-overin
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All I Know

the corner of our room where I bent over and threw up... inthe mouth of Cons beloved guitar. I think he got the message loud and clear that day, in G-vomit-flat. Luckily, Con wasnt my only option when it came to entertainment. In those years, we were constantly surrounded by people we loved. We had a village in the middle of a city strewn with every nationality imaginable. Many of the Greek people my parents knew in Australia were actually from their hometown, Florina. Some of them lived only streets from us in Collingwood and, Greeks being incredibly social creatures, that meant there was always a dinner, a Sunday picnic, a name-day, christening or social Greek dance to attend and, so as a result, there were lots of other children to hang with. There was always somewhere to go and something to do. When I think back on my childhood I remember it was very much a feeling of an extended family, which I have since recreated with my own friendships decadeslater. My father spoke of his village every day of my life and I was transported to it each time. Even though he had grown up in an affluent village, his family was among its poorest. The village was Vlach (a tribe of Greeks who also spoke an old form of Latin), many of its inhabitants becoming very successful traders as their forebears had been dating back to Roman times. My grandfather Contandinos left his wife and six children behind to seek out work possibilities in Romania and was gone for the most part of a decade. With his father not around, my dad, still a young boy, was given the responsibility of protecting the family along with his eldest brother George. Dad never spoke of his father in a negative way, but from all accounts my grandfather, for reasons perhaps to do with women and liquor, was unable to deliver all that he promised and all that was expected of him
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as the head of the family. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a formidable and honourable woman who was held in the highest regard by her children and all who knew her. I loved listening to that diaspora generation talk about their lives in Greece and all theyd left behind. There was strength in their stories and courage in their choices. Maybe because their options for prosperity were so limited, their trajectory had to be motivated by an unimaginable boldness. They had to move forward; they had to move beyond what was and in the direction of what could be. Australia was a shining, unknowable and distant light in a bleak period in Greeces history. There was hope for them, but it resided a million miles away. And so many of them followed it blindly. My father, like most migrants, worked incredibly hard in those early years. He had his own business as a sub-contractor, refurbishing and redecorating offices and houses twelve hours a day, six days a week. Essentially he was a painter of walls not canvases, a consistent doodler who drew beautiful evocative portraits on note pads during long business phone calls about painting buildings. Maybe in another time, under different circumstances, he would have been an artist but not during this lifetime. His artistry was instead directed towards his view of the world and the way he conducted himself in it. Great teachers hold a sacred key that unlocks potential in others. And I watched my father do that for so many people. He saw possibility in everyone. He saw opportunity in everything and he had a knack for speaking to people in a way that made them feel worthy and inspired. Thats how he made me feel every day of my life. No matter what pressures he was under, or whether his health was plaguing him, he was living the possibility of every moment to the fullest
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All I Know

and, by example, teaching me to do the same. Hed say things like, Dont wait for things to be perfect because youll be waiting forever. Get out there and get amongst it. He never held anyone back. I never remember him ever shutting anyone down. He was sure of who he was and let others be who they were. There was no fear involved, no intimidation, no ego; even as a child, I knew that was something very few people had to offer. One of the first childhood memories I have is of walking into a room full of people we knew and loved, holding my dads hand, and my father commanding their attention: Excuse me everybody, Id like to make an announcement. Id like to introduce you to my daughter! He did that same grand routine on many occasions during my formative years. It was his way of anointing someone he loved with a reminder that to know what we were capable of was the first step in exposing it to the world. I remember wearing that privilege as his daughter proudly. I knew that while he was alive anything was possible for me. I dont know whether his near-death experiences shaped him to be that way, or if it was a perspective he arrived into this world with, but I was always grateful for how limitless and unimpeded his way of loving was. Whether it was a joke, a story, a philosophy or everyday, pedestrian events he was sharing, my father was always completely captivating. My infatuation with him was fuelled by his vision and humour. No matter what the circumstances, whether petty or grave, his ability to highlight the ridiculous was permanently present. And the truth for me was: life appeared duller when he was missing even for a minute. Let alone forever. My father was a big advocate for education. The notion of discovering new ideas from great minds and being more able to
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Collingwood

express and create was something he found incredibly exciting. Even though the academic road was not one he was able to travel down coming from a poor family, he always encouraged us to fall in love with discovering the potential of our own way of thinking. In Collingwood we lived next door to another Greek family. Their daughter Mary, who was a few years older than me, taught me to read and write before I started school, which gave me a huge advantage and a real hunger to keep learning. In my first couple of years at primary school the teachers suggested I jump a grade but my father believed it would be problematic for me socially to be separated from the friends I had made. Also he felt that to suddenly be the youngest in my class would blunt my confidence, so I stayed in my original year level. Instead, he bought me a typewriter to begin a new form of expression: writing. That became an outlet for much communication from that point on, especially when things got emotionally difficult. On many of the occasions when my father was hospitalised, the idea of seeing him in emergency care connected to tubes and machines to keep him alive was just too terrifying for me. Instead of being there physically I would write my father a letter and my mother and brother would deliver it to him. Hospitals are a world of pain that you enter each time life takes you there. Not only do you encounter your own worst nightmares but you become an eyewitness to other peoples hell as well. The godsend, however, are the remarkable staff. Dedicated nurses and doctors can refill a diminished spirit with much-needed hopefulness. I know the role they played in my fathers experience was immeasurable. He survived it each time somehow, and so did we. Even though our future was in
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constant jeopardy because of my fathers illness, he refused to let it keep our lives at a standstill. Those years were very difficult for us but somehow they were still so great. When you are content, change is often an inconvenience. You dont fantasise about things being any different because you are gratified with what is. But change is inevitable and my parents had greater ambitions for us than Collingwood could offer.

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